The Accidental Writer
A Tangle of Memory, Moss, and Unspoken Words
She walks where the wild things bloom, listening for their quiet wisdom.
Before the galleries and reflections, before seasonal prompts and moth-chased meadows, there was simply this: a girl on an enchanted walk, whispering greetings to hedgerows and wondering if the trees whispered back.
Writing came slowly—not as a declared pursuit, but as a way of listening. Of remembering. Of stitching together fragments of grief and awe into something that might hold shape and meaning.
My love for the natural world began early, but it was the mountainside near my home that truly became a place of quiet protection—and the woods that held me when loss made words hard to find. Nature never asked me to explain myself. It simply made space.
And somewhere along the way, the stories began to arrive. Many weren’t mine—but they came with soft urgency, asking to be heard. Some belonged to land and lineage. Some to women long silenced. And when so few shared the language of place, of resilience, of soil and song—I realised: if I didn’t speak for them, maybe no one would.
Between the lines & petals, stories found her. Some she wrote. Some wrote her.
So here I am. Accidental. Intentional. A paradox rooted in witness. Writing not for acclaim, but because the stories ask to be heard. Some arrive softly, others insist—but all deserve room beneath the canopy.
What You’ll Find Here
In this space, the posts unfold like fern fronds through the seasons. Some are field notes from quiet observations—watching vetch twist into bloom or charting the gentle persistence of moths in the summers balm. Others dive deeper, exploring how connection with the land can mirror our own healing, growth, and ultimately our way back to our own truth.
You’ll also find curated galleries shaped by shifting light, seasonal tools for reflection and ritual, and stories that reclaim voice and place. Every piece is a gentle invitation—to witness, to wonder, to belong.
As the ferns unfurled, the stories followed…
A Quiet Remembering
Returning to the land isn’t only an act of ecological care—it’s a path of personal remembering.
As we tune into the hush of hedgerows or the pattern of petals opening with the morning sun, something in us begins to soften. We slow. We listen. And in that listening, we begin to hear the parts of ourselves we didn’t realise had gone quiet.
I believe that by finding our way back to the earth beneath our feet, we also find our way back to ourselves—even if we didn’t know we’d wandered off. Nature doesn’t ask for perfection. She simply offers presence.
In the hush of petals, something long-lost began to stir.
And in that presence, something begins to re-root and bloom. Because returning to the land means returning to ourselves, again and again, like seasons circling home. And each time we return, we find a little more of ourselves waiting there, ready to lead us home.
Her path home is lit by sunlit hush and golden threads.