26/01/2026
๐โ๏ธ Letters from the Road #3 โ๏ธ๐
After the noise of the village, the road softened.
The sound of voices and laughter faded behind me, replaced by a quieter rhythm beneath my feet. The land began to change as I walked, the air growing warmer, heavier with the scent of fruit, earth and something sweet I could not quite name.
๐บ The hills opened into wide gardens, overflowing and unruly, as if nothing here had ever been trimmed back or told to behave. Vines climbed freely over stone walls. Trees bowed under the weight of ripe fruit. Bees moved lazily from flower to flower, unhurried and certain there would be enough.
I realised how long it had been since I had walked somewhere that asked nothing of me.
At the centre of the gardens stood a low dwelling, built wide rather than tall, its doors open, its windows draped with fabric that moved gently in the breeze. There was no sense of arrival or announcement. Only an invitation to enter.
๐ฟ She was there before I saw her.
Not standing.
Not waiting.
Simply present.
She sat among cushions and woven cloths, her hands resting easily in her lap, as though the world had never demanded that she brace herself against it. Her clothes were rich with colour, deep greens, warm golds, soft reds, and when she looked at me, her gaze did not assess or measure.
It recognised.
โCome,โ she said, not as instruction but as welcome.
I sat, suddenly aware of how tightly my body had been holding itself. How accustomed I was to staying upright, attentive, useful.
๐ She offered food without ceremony. Bread still warm. Fruit heavy with juice. As I ate, I noticed how unfamiliar it felt to receive without earning it. Without performing. Without making sure everyone else was settled first.
She watched me gently, as if she already knew this part of me well.
โYou are allowed to be fed,โ she said quietly.
โNothing needs to be proven here.โ
Something in my chest loosened then. A soft ache surfaced, the kind that comes when something long denied is finally named.
๐ซ I stayed longer than I planned. Or perhaps time simply moved differently there. When I eventually stood to leave, I felt fuller in ways that had nothing to do with food.
As I stepped back onto the road, the light had shifted again. Softer now. Kinder.
๐ฆ The small bird appeared once more, settling on a low branch beside the path. Its feathers caught the sun, rich with colour, vibrant and alive.
It offered this before lifting into the air
You do not have to earn rest or care. You are allowed to receive.
I carried that with me as I walked on.
I will write again.
โธป
Marion Jorgensen
Psychotherapist and Hypnotherapist
WhatsApp 07712 537099
www.marionjorgensen.co.uk
https://www.facebook.com/MarionRCJorgensen/
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