There are so many stories tumbling inside me. So many stories to be heard, known, understood. So many stories to make a home inside this soul of mine.
Stories of how the light looks at Brisbane dawn, seeping into you, waking you long before you are ready. Stories of sisterhood and fierce love and unexpected tenderness. Stories of sushi and curry and cupcakes. Stories of hospital beds and meds and a ferociously beautiful octogenarian named Phyllis sharing a hospital room with three mad sisters. Stories of walks in long green and black skirts, patterned with elephants, walks waist-high through the jungle of Brisbane's wildflowers and wilderness, magnificence and mangroves. Stories of taxi drivers who break your heart or set it free with love for humanity. Stories of wildness. And laughter that leaves you breathless and falling into trees, the kind of laughter only sisters know. Stories of hands clutching crystals. Stories of past lives and presentness and priestesses and puppies. Stories of seeing beautiful women and luscious men in my eyes, heart, camera lens.
Stories of walking through the city at daybreak with a thirsty soul, following your feet past ruptured concrete to a tiny breath of Mama Earth, a park carved into the bustle of a hill. Stories of butterflies and birds. Stories of old friends and new friends. Stories of seeing an old friend and telling him: you know who I once dreamed of being? I am that now. Stories of a picnic in an abandoned lot/park/fairy garden, a gathering of rainbow precious women. Stories of pyjama parties and making dreams come true. And the brave pleasure of being yourself, even when that self seems faintly otherworldly. Stories of pain and healing, vulnerability and loveliness. Stories of nestling with my sisters, legs and hands akimbo, revelling in our holy trinity.
So many stories. I do not know yet how to tell them, how to speak them, how to hear them for what they really are. They instead are streams of silk fluttering around inside me, and I clutch at them, threading long fingers through them, grasping them into a ball. And then I let them go, I breathe and I sit. I watch, knowing instead that on their own, with time, the silken threads will weave and warp into a quilt of understanding and wisdom. Maybe I could show you the quilt when it has discovered itself. Maybe I could share it in adorned squares: of photographs, of the little stories, of moments.
But for now, there are breaths to be breathed, and a deeply precious life to be loved.
All is well,
with love,
Leonie
So many stories. I do not know yet how to tell them, how to speak them, how to hear them for what they really are. They instead are streams of silk fluttering around inside me, and I clutch at them, threading long fingers through them, grasping them into a ball. And then I let them go, I breathe and I sit. I watch, knowing instead that on their own, with time, the silken threads will weave and warp into a quilt of understanding and wisdom. Maybe I could show you the quilt when it has discovered itself. Maybe I could share it in adorned squares: of photographs, of the little stories, of moments.
But for now, there are breaths to be breathed, and a deeply precious life to be loved.
All is well,
with love,
Leonie
