The Story Collector

by Evie Woods

A truly creative life demanded a kind of blind faith in signs, hints or nudges towards a certain direction, from which things would inevitably flow organically.

Were we really sharing this earth with other ancestral or spiritual beings? Progress was divorcing society from such beliefs and yet Harold was determined to save these stories. He knew how important they were, even if the modern world turned its back on them, pronouncing itself too clever or too sophisticated for such fairy stories. His final words were the most poignant of all. ‘If we lose our stories,’ he wrote, ‘we lose ourselves.’

Grief is like a hard lump inside of you,’ she said, tapping her gut. ‘It will stay there, hard like a rock, unless you begin working to soften it.’

‘It will never go away completely, but instead of a hardness, it can become a tenderness. Your heart will make room for your memories and you won’t be afraid of them any more.’

Life was like a great painting; if you only focused on one part, you would miss the full picture.