Here I sit, located in time.
Fingertips brushing the stone beneath me as I contemplate the mountain of which they are a part. Of which I am a part.
The stones beneath me hold within their bodies the memory of Earth.
Of her passing cycles and her transformations.
Of her creations and her destructions.
It is the time of year where birth becomes a daily occurrence.
Following the resurrection times of Easter, we enter into longer days of light, the springing forth of green shoots and leaves and the beginning of warmer winds that herald the stripping off of winter layers.
In the North of England I am surrounded by the birth of lambs in the fields, the rising of early flowers on the hills and the co-creation of new ways of living as the pandemic restrictions we have been under for over a year are starting to lift.
Yet birth is often a struggle.
I am going to start this storyhack with a confession: I never wanted children.
At least, I never wanted physical children. There – I said it!
This decision and personal choice is something that is still considered taboo in most societies or at least very strange, but ever since I was a small child, I knew that this was not a path for me.