-
by AwenyddionSeer of the rupture, child of freak occurrence, cartographer of the sacred in-between I do not walk a straight path. I walk the trail of freak occurrences, the things no one could have predicted, the moments that shatter meaning and give birth to new shapes. I do not collect things. I collect events, thresholds,…
-
There was a time when I breathed in colours like air. Art was not a hobby. It was a heartbeat.A language the world could not decipher, but my soul spoke fluently. And yet, the voices came. Sharp as chalk on slate. Teachers with their red pens and cold smiles.“This is not enough.” “This is not…
-
At Island games in Orkney 2025! After years — maybe decades — of surviving life through masking and disconnection, I find myself learning how to feel again. Not in the abstract emotional sense, but physically, viscerally. My nervous system is no longer numbed. It’s awake now. Sometimes too awake. The other day, after an appointment,…
-
Truthful, with my pen as guide! A full-hearted, soul-sent storm chaser, crashing through this world with poetry in my veins and vulnerability as my sword. I don’t come gently. I come with the trinity of myth. I come with longing. I come with the kind of truth that makes people look away, “who knows, they…
-
There is something that feels familiar about Poor Things. Behind its surreal, provocative imaging, I see a metaphor that I think neurodivergent women will recognise, whether they’ve named it yet or not. The young, awakening Bella Baxter embodies more than just an odd, fantastical experiment. She reflects a pattern I know in my own DNA:…
-
The wind here doesn’t ask for permission.It simply arrives fast, forceful, unrelenting, carving through stone and skin alike. When I first came to Orkney, I thought the silence would heal me. I imagined the cliffs would hold me; the tides would teach me to breathe again. And in some ways, they have. But healing isn’t…
-
Eight years later, the realisation arrived quietly, like mist rising off familiar ground, only now seen through a different light. I was living in Orkney when I finally named it: Autistic.Two syllables that unravelled decades of misdiagnosis, silence, and shapeshifting. It was a lightning strike, not a single revelation. It was thunder, painful, when I…
-
Just a thought! If we want to avoid victims, if we refuse to become victims ourselves, we must first stop being perpetrators. As human beings, we have an extraordinary power: we create. We create respect, tolerance, equality, and peace; these are ours to wield, and we don’t need aggression to do so because we’re already…
-
Your weapon was never fire nor metal.No sharp blade, no arrow, no hardened armor.It was a benevolent smile and a warm, open heart that overflows with kindness. It was you, you who shattered the shield that was keeping my heart cold, closed, and dark.The walls I’d built, stone by stone, from years of hurt and…
-
“My beauty of Orkney mainland, a creature with a benevolent smile, a character clocked in duty, with features for a poet’s muse. She does not know, but hum, what if she did! “ They might not see how I feel the light of the setting sun of evening blankets around the familiars in Orkney and…
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens 