When will my voice speak to me, so I can write? 

Alone in the forest, as empty as the trees are full. Birds circle around me, drawing me in. I’m breath on the wind.

I’m all the things you ever meant to me.

My voice speaks to me in strange places. It also ends. Perhaps in writing, as in life, there is always a death. Is that what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid to begin before it can end.

I remember now. As a writer, I’m called to the darkness. That’s where I feel alive. In death I am alive.

Once death has spoken, and I have listened, the day will have a different quality. I’ll be like the woman in the forest, looking over her shoulder, having touched something.

I’ll have touched a voice.

What supports you to touch your voice?

What nourishes you so that you may feel deeper?

How does the darkness speak to you?

What can be understood from its depths?

Image courtesy of Helen Platania, titled ‘Forest Dweller’.

Please see more of Helen’s work by clicking here.

I have the joy of looking at Helen’s ‘Forest Dweller’ each day I visit my studio. When I was in isolation for the launch of Banyule Open Studios where my sound installation was on show, and I had asked Helen to share some of her illustrations for my installation, Helen asked me if she could pop into my studio and paste this piece on my wall behind my laptop stand. I am delighted by Helen’s gift. I can see ‘Forest Dweller’ peering over my screen each time I am at my desk. This woman, who I like to imagine resembles me, reminds me to produce my art from my own path I walk in the forest. Other artists walk their path too. I feel less alone knowing we are all finding our way in the forest.