I call myself a storyforager.

Some people spend hours flipping through stacks of obscure vinyl records, some scan the forest floor for delicious oyster mushrooms, some pick through antique jewelry for hidden beauties. We are all foragers, selecting items of meaning to put in our backpacks and carry with us on our journeys. Whether I am chatting with a friend over coffee or plucking tiny spiral shells from a sandy beach, I am a storyforager. I gather stories. I carry these alongside the acorns, feathers, and seaglass in my pockets.

Sometimes I return from foraging and lay down the words I’ve gathered like stones, discovering how they stack together. Perhaps they’ll direct a fellow traveller, invite a new way of looking at an old path, or offer assurance that nearby is another wanderer, as we all are. The stories mark a way—possibilities for walking into territories known and unknown.