The Postman Brings The Seeds

Dear Fellow Human People,

I cannot sit for a long time, I must type this fast. I have been in pain for two weeks and that silenced me. I have no idea what happened but I suspect the situation of my country, our world may have etched my nerves alongside the excitement of the book.

Here in Turkey, there are so many young people growing spines that older generations never could. They are protesting, they are fighting for their future and their rights to participate in it. I am home, very near to the protests, being a home for a story in a foreign language which makes me feel a bit foreign, outside and useless, I must admit. Even though my ecofantasy story as it deepens shall touch and intersect with many brewing matters, I don’t have an immediate response or action when it comes to our collective patriarchal reality, our rigid human-centric world.

That being said, I keep myself open for conversation.

And that makes me wonder, if I am asked to shape shift my spine. Perhaps. But I cannot entertain this question and its train of thought here right now because the more I write the more I must sit and I simply cannot. It is quite humbling not to be able to sit on a chair or do some basic movements yet at some point the broken record side of your mind begins to trip… and things get complicated and lonely. This may be why I am also sending this newsletter. Reaching out is as important as reaching in.

In the midst of all these,

the postman brought my books on Monday.

The books came from a long way from France and I wanted to share how we found each other because that too has a little story.¹

the window through which i heard the postman and the books

I never hear the postman.

Yet, on Monday, I thought I heard the postman saying my name.

I rushed to the window, opened it, and saw a young man talking to our neighbourhood grocer. I asked if he was looking for me. “No,” he replied, puzzled. “I did not say your name.” The postman walked back towards my window. “My apologies," I said, the sound of my name fresh in my ears. "I must have misheard."

Still, I was quite pleased that I'd caught him. “Can you check if you happen to have a post for me?” I asked. He was kind enough to go through the letters that he was holding and shook his head. No mail.

“I am expecting a book,” I said. "I guess you’ll bring it another day."

That made him curious. “Wait a minute,” he said, gesturing to me to stop. He lowered his backpack. “I have a few more unregistered ones here.”

As soon as he opened and grabbed the white parcel, I sensed the books. Perhaps I recognised Nathalie's handwriting or La Fourmi's stamp from afar, even without my glasses. Or I noticed that it was torn quite a bit. After all, they travelled about three thousand kilometres to reach me. I just knew it.

“That is for me,” I cheered. He double-checked the name and the address, and it was. He passed me the package through the window, and I thanked him, smiling.

I fished for my book and caught it. Or the book called my name nonverbally, and I just opened my arms. Who knows? Regardless, I must have felt their presence, and they must have felt mine. We've known and been courting each other for almost a decade now. They could not just pass by my window without waving their pages and saying hi!

The postman brought La Graine on April 14th, 2025, at noon.

The moon was full, Venus direct, Cancer rising from the eastern horizon, my heart was tender, my back in pain, and La Graine arrived.

I cried a bit. It has been a long, long, long journey. Then we hugged.

Gizem Gizegen, 2025 Istanbul, ☉ Taurus ☽ Capricorn

1. And that story is already typed. I wrote it on my instagram some days ago. In the times of trouble it helps to repurpose some things you have already written.