All Posts

Have you ever considered that there are two kinds of love stories? One begins with a collision, a spilled coffee, or a stranger across a crowded room who turns out to be the boss' son or the rival's brother. They’re the heart-stopping moments that create external reactions. But the other begins quieter. Two people walk past each other, or they share a glance. In their core, they feel that gut reaction, even before the mind catches up.

There's a feeling that hits after you learn you didn't make it to the next round of a competition. It's a small, sinking feeling, and right behind it is a temptation to start telling yourself an outdated story.

An ancient well called Venton Bebibell lies hidden near Men Scryfa in Cornwall. It means “the well of the little people.” Not fairies, not elves, and not the glittering creatures we all imagine with sparkling wings. The little people. It is said carefully, said with respect, because, I’m told, in the villages of southwest England, you don’t use the real name. You call them the Good Folk, the Fair Folk, or the Good Neighbours.

There’s a tomb in Westminster Abbey where a king and queen lie side by side in bronze. Their effigies are gilded and crowned with the initials A and R. It’s as if they were pressed into the metal like a secret between two people who didn’t care if anyone else understood. Richard II commissioned and designed the tomb while he was still alive. And he specified one detail that was unique to an English royal tomb. Their hands were clasped together.

The word Druid means “knower of the oak” or “the one who sees the oak”. When I looked up the word, I learned that the Anglo Saxons also used it, giving it two meanings: tree and truth. It’s a word I contemplate whenever I’m taking a hike or meditatively observing the trees at the nearby park.

There are cliffs in Cornwall where the land drops into the Atlantic and the wind seems to hold the fragrance of earth and salt. Stand there long enough and the world behind you: the roads, the routines, the realistic life dissolves. What remains is raw. Ancient. Uncontained.