Story has always been sacred to me.

Story has always been sacred to me - a holy thread woven and chosen through my life since childhood. My earliest memories are lying beneath the kitchen table at my family’s feet, a small child tucked among blankets, pillows and toys, listening to the world above me shimmer with voices. The soft Polish murmur of my grandfather and the singing Swiss lilt of my grandmother, cradled in the warmth of the wood fired stove, the air thick with homemade buttery bread and raspberry jam . That table was my first temple, my first taste of the Mystery.

Over my lifetime, I’ve learned story, rises from the bones, the land and lineage, from Dreaming and ancestors, from sitting in circle with others, and the tender tending of my children’s precious becoming. I have spent my life listening: to people, to place, to the body, to the unseen threads that bind us to everything. Story is how I make meaning. How I pray. Story is how I remember.

The short stories gathered here are pieces born from my growing devotion to myth — from circling with ancient archetypes, gods and goddesses, from walking the Wheel of the Year and the turning seasons. They are shaped by my entanglement with the living world: roses, the creeks, moonlight, wind, stone, my furred and feathered kin and the old rhythms that breathe beneath the surface of things. These stories are part remembrance, part invocation, part dream.

I love stories. I dream them with my eyes awake. They carry me into my own remembering — into the mythic river that runs through all things. I dream I am a stone in that river, the water caressing the stories from my skin.