Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens

Two months now, I’ve been back on these windswept Orkney Islands, with hail clattering against the windows and snow whispering its icy secrets into the night. The days have been long and strange, filled with waiting. I’m still somewhat camping, a nomad between hearths, as I anticipate the day I’ll receive the keys to my little cottage, a place to finally call home after years wandering the Scottish isles. I can almost picture it now, a little sanctuary, a place where the storm-battered fragments of myself might find rest. 

The standing stones, ancient and unyielding, remain steadfast, their silent watch unbroken. The northern lights have begun their yearly dance, a rainbow of green and violet weaving stories across the night sky. It’s as if the island herself is alive, touched by draíocht, an ancient magic that feels both eternal and immediate. I watch as artisans craft beauty from the mundane, their hands moving with otherworldly precision as though the spirit of the land guides them. 

And yet, amidst all this wonder, there’s a sorrow in me, sharp and unrelenting. There is love, my heart talks about her! But it lives like a secret, buried deep, words I cannot speak. It’s a hurt that winds through me like a melancholy tune, a broken violin string vibrating with a song only I can hear. Every time I see her, with her benevolent smile that seems to light my entire day, my heart stumbles. How strange it is to be moved so deeply and yet to feel that I cannot express it. It’s as though my love is a voice without sound, a longing that can neither reach nor be received.

Why does it hurt? Is it the ache of knowing I may never be seen, never be understood in the way I yearn to be? Or is it the fear of causing her pain, of letting my own heart spill over and perhaps staining the peace she seems to carry so effortlessly? Or is this what they mean with love hurts, as I cannot express it, nothing I can do to make her world better? What I do know is the my muse is still pulling my heart strings.

Without a map, I wander through the mystery of my feelings, trusting only the quiet pull of something unseen. I’m beginning to learn that the outcomes of our wishes, those fervent, whispered hopes, are often withheld from us until the time is right. And perhaps that’s where the magic lies, in the waiting, in the not knowing, in the hope that the stars might one day align and allow ourselves to be enchanted by life again.

Maybe it’s time to seek the witches of Orkney, those who understand the ancient ways, and ask them to join me under the full moon by the standing stones. We could dance beneath the northern lights, casting my unspoken feelings to the wind, letting the island herself decide what to do with them. But those are musings for another night.

Next, I’ll tell you about my new job, an adventure in its own right and one worth sharing. For now, I’ll let the snow fall and the hail sing its clatter as I surrender to the lessons of this day.  

©️Elke T.B. Stevens 20/11/2024