I’m sitting at the bottom of my street in the “faery grotto”. All I can hear is the trickle of the stream and the pitter pattering of the rain as it blurs these words across the page and dances off the tips of the ferns. It is so incredibly beautiful down here where the light barely descends into this ancient woodland, especially today under the cloak of clouds. It’s the first time I’ve been out in a week, other than the two block drive to the school. I’ve had a sick child home all week and as tricky as that can be I am so grateful that I can be here when she’s sick.
I’m so lucky to have this treasure of bush, which feels magical and mysterious like a woodland of spirits, so close to home and wonder how it is that I let life stop me from coming down here more often under the illusion (be it ever so real) of “busy”.
So what I have been craving for myself is Silence, a rare thing for a mother to find. I steal away to give myself some in little snippets here and there and am amazed with how much can be heard when we are just silent.