I am a teacup and white lace dress woman, but there is hill shadow in my soul. I had my first education from old briny wind coming in from forgotten beaches and amongst deep, haunted woods. I was ghost-bothered, fairy-followed. Later, in the quiet suburbs, inbetween playing with paper dolls and drawing horses, I learned to read tarot, see memories, and unclock time. I walked out of my shoes and up trees and into mysteries, with rock music playing in the background. Still, I love the smallest flowers, gentle books, embroidered handkerchiefs.
Maybe it is because I grew up on a hill with the wild sea wind. I never developed an affinity for walls and doors. There has always been so much to love - shadow, moss, owls, Devonshire teas, antique stories, barren rooms, plain white, fleece fairies, tea leaf prophecies, old unearthed words, fierce hair, nose rings, silk and lace petticoats, kittens with ribbon collars, wolves ... Surely there's space enough in a heart for it all.
Today I added this wonderful website to my favourites list, where it sits next to this one. Plain Granny wisdom from the mountains, and fairy dreaming in the flowering woods. They seem to be opposites. I should pick just one for my inspiration. I should myself be just one. I should choose between Sarah or Ada, white lace dress-wearer or witch at the edge of the world. I should post pink blossoms or wintered mountains, feral dreaming or old-fashioned sweet-sounding nature notes. I should remember to maintain a brand, be consistent, have a style, keep focussed, stay authentic.
But to hell in a handbasket with authenticity. It's far more fulfilling to be open, wild, and curious.
(I am now writing over at Knitting the Wind.)