When I can’t fit my thoughts in my regular newsletter, I come here to ramble, sometimes even eloquently. As a jack-of-all-trades type, the topics vary greatly. You’ll find stories behind my paintings, short stories and essays on anything from agriculture to intentional living to cultural issues. If you don’t like one post, maybe don’t give up until you’ve tasted a few.
Often, I’m mentally chewing on some big things and just want to send my thoughts out to the void, secretly hoping for some solidarity.
Always, I strive to filter these thoughts through a sieve built with love.
Thoughts, updates, stories…
With Love, Elli
The Way We’ve Always Done It
Once there was island nation called Potamus, where the trees grew short and stout and the residents lived on seaweed. The island was volcanic, and frequent eruptions of hot gas singed the treetops and forced the rain forest to grow out rather than up. The volcano was only middle-aged and mostly friendly. It still lay low in the center of the island rather than a mountain looming high over it. It would remain so for centuries to come for it was content to bubble and puff rather than build itself up with lava at the cost of destruction of life on the ring of land.
The creatures who lived on Potamus were gray and bulbus, with long tubular noses.
When Mountains Move
One particularly foggy day, the child had gone in and out, unable to decide whether to play outside in the thick wet mist that had settled on the valley or find something indoors, such as a favorite book. While these things rolled like a sluggish marble around the child’s mind, this was happening outside:
“Come on, Hardy, won’t you play? Just for a little bit?” A voice like a low, persistent wind begged.
“No.”
“But we hardly ever get to play.”
“It’s still light out, and I smell rain. If it rains, our only cover will be knocked out of the air in an instant” The second voice rumbled.
“It’s not going to rain. It hasn’t rained in months.”
“It hasn’t misted in months either. Yet, somehow here were are shrouded in fog, and you’re begging me to play- what? A game of spades? NO, Correy.”
A high growl erupted from the younger, “Hardy! You’re no fun!”
It should be noted that at this time, the child searching for the cure to boredom was sure thunder rumbled outside. A break from perusing the bookshelves revealed nothing because the air still hung thick with mist. If human eyes could have penetrated the moisture in the air, this is what they would have seen.
