Note: This VoiceOver is unedited and recorded with zero equipment, so please excuse any background noises!
P.S. If you liked the VoiceOver, let me know and I can do some more.
Welcome to On the Outside. I’m still exploring the shape of this little corner, but it is here that you can subscribe to receive thoughts and pieces on connection, curiosity, courage, life-y stuff and other lint I pull from the pockets of my brain. There’s some poetry, some short fiction stories, and essays. Welcome, welcome 🧡
Snowdrops are blossoming in the forests and the hedgerows and the verges of the land. They peek from amongst leafy skeletons, venturing out to stand proud, tiny symbols of hope for the coming spring. I am drawn to them, seeking them in the shelter of the ancient forest, in the moment of sun on a hazy winter's day. They beckon me on, carrying me in the turning of the wheel, the rolling of the seasons.
Near the start of our walk, after climbing a hill steep enough to make me stumble, we stepped into weak daylight and a view of a far-off land. The clouds lay low and blue. We caught our breath and crossed the hilltop, passing stone cairns now used as a rest stop by other wanderers. The trees enveloped us slowly, their feet concealed in drifts of brown leaves and dead bracken. No snowdrops here.
On our next walk, the day held more watery sunlight and the trees hummed their hushed song in the gentle breeze. We were joined at the edges by ducks, clustering by the canal banks, drifting as close as they dared in hope of our crumbs. Ahead, arching over the mountain to touch the road we travelled, a weak rainbow appeared and disappeared, an illusion, a dream. On the opposite bank, too steep for travellers, bursts of snowdrops sparkled through the undergrowth. I held their little hope in my heart.
Perhaps an ancient woodland doesn't need little snowdrops to remind it that spring is coming. This one has seen a millennium go by, spring after spring, winter after winter. The endless turning of the wheel. The leaves drop and the leaves grow. Roots reach deep into the soul of the earth, and branches wave at the eternal sky. Holly and beeches, conifers and oaks, dormice and orchids, and somewhere, somewhere, there must be snowdrops. I hope.
We turn from the forest onto quiet lanes weaving through a quiet vale. A stream sings to itself at the bottom of the slope. It is bright now, the sun has pushed through the clouds, determined to warm the earth. The hush of the forest is replaced with the sound of life. Children and dogs call to each other. Ducks and chickens scratch at the ground. Overhead, a buzzard soars and all along a hedgerow, we are followed and watched by a tiny, fierce robin.
There, tucked at the foot of a hedge tangled with brambles, I found my hope. Little drops of light in the shade, determined and proud, their delicate flowers dancing lightly as we passed. I stopped for a moment, just a breath. Then on we went, back into the trees, carrying my little glimpse of hope with me.
It comes to me now, through our walks and our journeys, that, in hoping for snowdrops, I had hoped for hope itself.
If you enjoyed this piece, I’d love to know. It’s so wonderful to see your support and comments on my writing, and it underpins my whole reason for writing: connecting with others. Please share if you enjoyed it :)
‘I held their little hope in my heart’ 🤍. Beautiful
This was absolutely beautiful! Your reading voice was perfect. Did you also write this piece- sorry, I couldn’t tell if a reading of someone else’s work or your own