Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens

Pulled through the mist of time, unwritten pages of my time in Orkney laid open from the book like the slow turn of a tide pulling something long forgotten to shore.

In an afternoon storm, I hear a whisper in the wind that seems to know my name. It comes from the land of standing stones, selkies, the sea, and the o so pink sky.  

But it wasn’t meant to be, or is it? I remember when I first rolled off the ferry, being a stranger in a place where hills and skies mirror something I hadn’t yet understood, and as the seasons moved, so did I. Leaving behind the rough beauty of Orkney with its windswept storm-battered cliffs and quiet coves, or sea bosoms as I like to call them.  

But the land has its way, doesn’t it? You can let it go, but it does not let you go as easily as we think. The stones I walked around, the mist that blankets around the hills, they wait, not in any ruched way, but with the patience of mystical ancient things, knowing that what begins there is made to withstand and be history, culture, and communities.

I find myself drawn back, thinking perhaps it’s not the land at all. Maybe it’s the unfinished stories, the words left unspoken in the silty air, the moments that never fully bloomed. Or maybe it’s just the nature of the place, the ancient things that linger, calling us back when the time is right.

I’m not entirely sure what comes next, as some journeys, just like the tides, can only be felt in their slow pull and quiet inevitability.

For now, I fill the empty pages with the memories of what I left behind, tracing remnants, half-formed, half-forgotten; with each word, I wave a bridge between the life I knew and the one still waiting on my arrival. The winds and waves whisper their quiet call somewhere between this past and the unknown future.

©️ Elke T.B. Stevens 08/09/2024