For the past month I have been sick with what many of us, here in the Yukon, are now affectionately calling 'the plague,' as soon as you feel you are finally getting better it knocks you on your ass for another 3 - 5 days; I'm on round 4 and really hope I can kick it this time.
In the meantime.... life goes on.
Freak snow storms in the middle of May.....
Stellars Jay's return...
Bears have snacks on the side of the highway... hopefully not people.
And I begin writing a new story...
The day the snowbirds returned, I followed the Innukshuk down into the ancient land. It was no accident I had inherited the staff that took me. Old Rumier had known me before I'd taken my first introductory breath, I still miss him.
A new chapter, of an old piece...
But isn't that what all stories are, continuations of stories told before, told anon with fresh eyes, new mouths, as we each travel the worn path of life, learning who we are, finding purpose, daring to dream, to stand, to speak, to sing, to love... to live.
Some would say there is nothing new, everything has already been said, done or written and stories are just being recycled through different voices, tellings, and live. That the words may change, the characters and story lines, but in the end the result is the same. I can't help but think that in someway they are wrong, there may be similarities, but I believe that every story that breaths, and lives, is it's own being, just as there are no two beings on earth who are exactly the same, and every story I write has it's own life, it's own voice, and it's own message for those who read it.
