When I was growing up, the only child of two hippy book fanatics, reading and books were all over in my (ever-changing) houses. Despite the lack of financial means, buying books was always a priority and always encouraged. And the various public libraries were some of the places I spent most of my free time in.
Having no TV meant the stories came from books mostly. Reading was a distraction, a passion, a solace, a school of life, a pleasure, a fundamental of my life.
Also… before I could even read, my mum told me stories. The big stories. The ones from myths and fairytales. Greek myths were my daily companions. I wandered with gods, goddesses, and heroes, witnessing the sweeping vistas of life and death that legend unfolded for me.
I loved stories. I couldn’t explain why but I knew, instinctively that they held power.
I grew up to love them even more, in all forms.
Stories from books of course, stories from songs (what is a ballad if not a short melodic story?), from poems and even, later from movies and TV shows.
And, like so many others, I also loved stories from real people. Celebrities or friends, from magazines or history books.
My father became a writer, then a publisher, I became a bookshop keeper, my mum is an avid reader even now. I married a reader and a book collector. My son writes poetry. I have written a couple of novels, hundreds of poems and many short stories.
And I am the proud owner of more than 6000 books… that are mostly stories.
To this very day, stories are the fertile ground where my vivid imagination awakens and my very realistic inner director begins "shooting" ideas and whole scenes in my head… and from there, onto the paper or the computer.
And my favourites remain the fantasy ones, the ones that reach wide, create whole worlds and universes and have a panoramic and broad take on life. With a fable characteristic. And possibly a lesson or moral to them. One to teach imprudent travellers to beware of the wolf… or something of the kind!
Myth is and has always been the golden thread weaving through all my stories… And everyone else’s, too.
It’s the echo that reminds us that we are not the first to lose our way in the forest, nor the last to find our own light again. Myths are the bones beneath every modern tale, the whispers that travel from ancient firesides to our streaming screens. They speak in symbols, but what they really tell is us… our fears, our hopes, our impossible courage.
I’ve come to realise that stories are not just something we consume; they are something we become. Every choice we make, every belief we hold, is shaped by a story we once heard and decided to keep. And perhaps, if we listen closely enough, we can begin to tell new ones, stories that heal instead of wound, that open instead of close, that remind us of our own divinity in the great myth of being human.
Because that is what stories do, isn’t it? They give shape to the shapeless. They turn chaos into meaning. They wrap mystery in words so we can hold it for a moment and whisper, Ah, now I see.
Even before we can speak, stories are already weaving us into their fabric. A mother’s lullaby, a whispered bedtime tale, a family anecdote told around the table, each one quietly teaching us what love looks like, what danger feels like, what home means.
Later, as we grow, those stories become the architecture of our inner world. They teach us who the heroes are, what monsters look like, and whether we believe in magic or not. They decide, long before we notice, what we think is possible.
Sometimes, I think the greatest act of freedom is simply this: to pause and ask, what story am I living right now? And who wrote it?
When I think of myth, I think of living worlds. Of gods and goddesses, heroes and monsters, not as distant figures locked in dusty books, but as mirrors of ourselves, reflections of our fears, our desires, our courage and our folly. They are stories that stretch wide, capturing the sweep of life and death, love and loss, triumph and failure, all in one breath.
These myths are not just entertainment. They are maps, handed down through generations, showing us how to navigate the inner and outer landscapes of life. They teach us that the wolf in the forest is also the shadow within us, that the quest is as much inward as it is outward, that transformation is always possible if we are willing to step into the unknown.
And what fascinates me most is how these archetypal stories continue to breathe in us. Every act of imagination, every dream, every story we tell ourselves, carries their echo.
They shape the way we perceive the world, the choices we make, the love we give, and the courage we summon. Myth reminds us that life itself is a story, and that we are both the storyteller and the hero of our own journey.
Stories, at their heart, are not just words. They are vessels of wisdom, emotion, and experience, connecting us to something larger, something timeless. They invite us to enter, to feel, to imagine, and in that act of entering, we discover ourselves anew.
For me, myth has always been a doorway rather than a destination. The stories I grew up with, the gods and goddesses, the heroes and monsters, were not just tales to admire from afar. They became companions, teachers, and sometimes mischievous guides in the worlds I built inside my own mind. I found myself wandering through those landscapes long before I knew how to write them down.
As a child, I would spend hours imagining what it might be like to sit at Athena’s feet, to walk through the forests with Artemis, to challenge the chaos of the universe with the bravery of Heracles. These figures were larger than life, but they also mirrored my own small, imperfect self. They taught me that courage could be cultivated, that mistakes were part of the journey, and that imagination could be as powerful as reality.
As I grew older, those lessons took shape in other ways. Books became a playground for invention, poems a laboratory for feeling, short stories a place to experiment with worlds and characters. Writing became not just an act of creation, but a way of honoring the stories that had shaped me, a way of contributing my own thread to the endless tapestry of human imagination.
Even now, when I sit with a blank page, I feel the echo of those myths whispering, nudging me forward. They remind me that the act of storytelling is sacred, that to tell a story is to participate in something timeless, something larger than oneself. And that is why, to this very day, I return to stories again and again, not just to escape, but to awaken, to understand, and to remember who I am and who we all might be.
Voilà . I believe that is all for today. I would be so happy to hear from you. If this spoke to your heart, I would love for you to share it with a sister, a friend, a fellow Goddess on the path. I send, as always, love, light, and gratitude.
Isaya
PS: Over the next few weeks, I’ll be diving deeper into stories and exploring how they shape our lives and the world around us.
