I am not my thoughts. Look back on pain and smile. Or something like that. Over and over again. It’s more difficult to write knowing that someone else will read it. Fear of judgement is probably the most limiting thing in my world right now but 40 minutes lets go and no edits except punctuation. Never forget the benefits of a semi colon. So intestinal and base. Sitting in a condensationy cafe with coffee and an friend and stories of travelling coming up like dreams and wondering about writing about travelling stories and what they can be transformed into because the more I tell them the more I realise how magic that way of being is and I bring it back into me. This is ultimately because I’m reading Women who Run with the Wolves, cringe I am 10 years late, and noticing how clear of judgement Estes is by putting Little Match Girl first in the book – go where your creativity is nourished, or die. The creeping cold and apathy will snuffle out your light and your granny will come take you back into spirit, leaving the forest to bury your small, malnutritioned body before your life has properly begun. Or be killed. Only two ways of interpreting that story, a hardcore hit. Start with the big guns is the message there, the death of a child is always shocking. And my brain is moving at 30% speed today and I love it, a shamanic shakedown where all the swords and earth things showed up. Do I know anyone who builds treehouses? I need one. A boy in forest school on Saturday asked if we can start building a treehouse, yes of course, we have permission and tools lets do it, we could do with some wood donations as the hutters keep clearing the fallen branches on that site and we could do with starting from a strong base. I was nervous about leading that session but I won’t be next time, just keep building. Thinking about Marycoulter woods school and how Dawn runs it and I will visit again in the summer hopefully. So many thoughts when I’m making a cup of tea then I change body position and they stop. What am I allowed to talk about on my own bit of internet? How free is freedom of the internet? In my world? Family? Relationships? Work? How free is free? and What is useful for me? For anyone else? Something about paper and trees and work and what communications we are honouring in all of this. These stories Estes has pulled out… a friend pointing out how Disney altered Vasalisa into Cindarella and Snow White, so that instead of learning self care when she is ousted out of the nest by the bullying and hate of her step family, she finds salvation in romantic love with a prince. The other will bring you peace, the stranger, a kiss, sex, romance, a party, your clothes and your shoe. Especially your shoes, they will bring you peace and meaning. How is that even allowed in the world? It’s like some screwed up form of story abuse. Some would say Patriarchy at it’s finest. Layers and layers of gender conditioning through toys and cartoons and language and clothes affects all our children, regardless of gender, not least the children we carry inside us as adults. Vasalisa and her little doll, her story of initiation into understanding the ways of her wild self and shared psyche through completing baba yaga’s tasks. And then I take my daughter to nursery and as we walk accross the room holding hands she waves from tip toes and coos HELLO DAHRLIN’ HELLO at her friend and I see all the lovey names we call ourselves at home spilling into the world and how naieve and real they are but also how the copycatting of toddlers reproduces them like a machine. Machinated expressions of tenderness being tried and tested and role-played into new relationships, and how we are ever going to navigate genuine communication unless we fail at it consistently and keep readjusting how say what we mean, and I know I will be the old woman in the home clutching pluto saying shhhshhh dahlin it’s ok because I will miss all of the trying so much.