life and death on the forest floor
scavenging for the authentic
When I was writing my book, I always started early in the morning, long before the humans wrestled from the grip of their beds, long before the rooster crowed his demands to the sleeping sun, long before the barn cats crawled out from between the hay bales to come up to the house, awaiting to escort the humans to their feed dishes. No, it was just me and, depending on the season, either the fires in the wood burning stove or the lonesome call of the loon keeping me company. That, and a candle.
I always started my writing by lighting that candle, a big, beefy beeswax pillar - the biggest I could buy. The deal was the book would be done by the time the candle was. I lit it this morning, always with the same whispered prayers to God, to my angels, to my daughter and my ancestors, those known and those not. I ask for guidance. I ask for the courage I need to be vulnerable and the willingness to step through open doors with faith. I always hope to find the things more important, bigger than myself.
But there are times, like this morning, when I sit here with my candle and my intention and I don’t want to be vulnerable. I don’t want anyone to know the tender parts. I want to be anonymous and tucked in, tucked away. The people that know me in “real life” can find these words, see into the deepest parts of me without the natural, curated exchange of who sees what and what we decide we want to share. That reciprocity is often absent and the exchanges unbalanced. As a writer, I lay it all out, shredded and bare. I’m in a room and it’s quiet and what I’ve got is given in hope that it finds the souls it’s meant to, that we can connect to one another, find some sort of nugget in my words to touch something that needed to be touched.
I certainly hope so.
Sometimes that call to be as real as I can feels like the deepest honour. Sometimes it feels too exposed. I’ve been in situations where I’ve been introduced to someone for the first time and they say, “Oh yes, Tara! I read your stories!” And I’m suddenly not