What resonated, what places came forward, themes and questions from ‘Writing Beyond the Environment: Writing from the Roots’ by Emergence Magazine

I pull the handles down, simultaneously, hearing my mother’s voice in my head, warning me to be careful with the locking mechanism. I push the heavy sliding doors open with my entire body. I grip the handle at the curve closest to the door, so it doesn’t flick back up and closed, and as soon as a gap appears, I push my right shoulder in. All the way open I push them, first the door on the right and then the one on the left, tripling the living room in size, turning outside inside in.

If I’d never hear them again, I would miss all the ambient sounds that make me feel like I am home. The sounds that make me feel comfortable, at ease, like I am in a trusted place, surrounded by love and warmth and well-being.

For all that all the things in this rooms fit just so, there are so many creaks, and openings, and gaps, and moments of space where nothing happens and everything seems possible.

Strength is smooth and flows and is fluid…

Can we talk about the natural world with the words we have? We don’t always have enough verbal language within our grasp to truly express how we experience nature, nor how nature experiences us. What happens when the sound of the landscape becomes the focal point of our writing? Can you write with the shape of letters?

See her for who she is.

The ebbing and flowing, the coming and going, the returning while leaving. I recognise this in the sea. She is always there, yet fleeting. She is always present, yet racing ahead. There is a restfulness in acknowledging this is her true nature. There is restoration in allowing her to lap at your being, to retreat, to come back in her own time.

The sea, the sea, the sea. The sea is salt and wet feet and strong winds, rain and sun and freedom, windswept hair and difficult conversations and freeing talks. The sea is breath, and breathing, and the act of being free. The sea is different, everywhere, and always the same.

The dunes of Kennemerland. The backyard in Heemstede, and in particular the trees: the cherry in the front yard, the apple, the plum and the sweet cherry in the back. My birth tree.

I lie in bed and am suddenly awake. I look up through the skylight and see a bright light, a cragged line cleaving the dark blue velvet of the night’s sky in two. The crashing thunder follows and rattles the glass. I can vaguely see the white slats of my cradle around me and feel trapped. I do not want to feel like this, cold and alone.

I stand on the bright green carpet of my grandmother’s garden. Heavily scented flowers permeate the air, blooming bright around me. Trees tower over me, I am surrounded by lush foliage and deep emerald. I know the pool is behind the edge of the thick, over where the trees leave a hollow space in their canopy. I know there is shade there, and cool water, and endless fun.