Thunder gathers over my head with the insistent roar of a crested wave, before breaking with a sharp crack that has me jumping. The sky settles with a low grumble like an amused chuckle at my expense and the rain drops continue their pitter-patter against the balcony tiles. An occasional fat drop splashes against the notebook in my lap and smears the carefully inked words in lurid purple streaks. Beside me, a heart shaped leaf of a sweet potato vine nudges playfully at my arm. Earlier, I had lit an incense stick with a soft invocation to the Greenman, and the scent of teak, mahogany and sage smoke curls languidly across the balcony bringing with it the edge of a fae wildness.
This space, my little balcony garden, is both familiar and alien under the lashing rains and the soft flicker of candlelight. It is a space that I have frequented many times to read and garden in and create sacred space, but I haven’t ever written anything in it. And I am discovering now that I like it. Even with the heat as a constant, looming presence and the cars loudly driving below, I like the feel of being enclosed in plants and plaster and sky, of all my senses engaged and that energy pouring through my pen and into the page. I think I will take the time to write here more often.