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People are made of stories.

Stories are the threads that weave between us, knit us together, even the ones that make us cry.

Especially the ones that make us cry.

One day, we’ll share the stories of Tiny Gandalf and the woman who stole a fridge, and of the cosmic bus and the cups of tea, and of a town in the hills where the crows sing.

Stories are important, you see. Keep telling ’em. Keep speaking them until your heart breaks. And then tell the story of that, too.

Because stories are stronger than rock, stronger than heartbreak, stronger even than time itself – so long as you got the breath to tell them.

Keep telling them.



What We Carry

I’m loaded down with a rucksack that is far too heavy, realising that my Everyday Carry game is, probably, way out of whack. The things I’m carrying about my body, probably, would also look ridiculous to the hardened nomad.

1. A suit jacket, black (wearing).

2. Handmade patchwork trousers, themselves the rebirth of a dozen grunge-era jeans.

3. A not-by-me handmade Indian shirt. Bright orange.

4. A deep purple shirt and purple tie.

5. A pirate-buckled waistcoat.

6. Assorted toiletries and a sleeping bag.

7. A laptop. Solar charger. Phone bank. Notebook and coloured pens.

8. Frankinsence cones. Lighter.

9. An antique rosary, dedicated Stella Maris.

10. A Mary Oliver book.

All this is far too much and indeed ridiculous, but I hope it fits the pilgrimage I’m undertaking; to the remembrances of two friends. I’m hoping that I’m only taking what I need – even if, right now, my needs feel very heavy, and my shoulders sometimes ache.

On Sorrow, Mary Oliver.

Landscape, Mary Oliver



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