Where Stories Come From

We arrive on the Salisbury plain before sunrise. The atmosphere grows lighter, and my ability to view the scenery heightens. The land stretches into the distant horizon, a green blanket of grass, for slumbering sheep.

My mind hesitates, questioning my first groggy glimpse of the massive crown of standing stones known as Stonehenge.

Can it be real?

If the question seems foolish, it is only because the scene is so otherworldly. Before dawn, before motor carriages filled with tourists arrive, it is easy to imagine that we have wandered into faerie and are being granted a glimpse behind the veil.

The air is hushed and chilly. I walk beneath a colossal lintel into the center. I look out through the stones at a nearby flock of sheep, seemingly unaware they are sleeping beside one of the world’s ancient wonders. Birds perch on massive sarsen stones and bluestone, I watch as they flit and dart into crevices that have been there since prehistoric times. The wind picks up. It is cold, it is beautiful, and as I wait for sunrise, another pilgrim begins beating a shaman’s drum. My breath deepens and slows.

The air whispers stories to me and I listen.

Once I return home I will feel compelled to begin writing a novel.