Bird Wisdom

While we watched birds eating at the bird feeder, Malcolm, a small faerie man, told me, “We must learn to walk upon our Mother Earth in the stillness of our spirit.”

He paused, reflectively watching the birds.  “We must walk gently upon her as birds leaving their tracks in the snow.  The tracks are there for a brief time until they melt away, leaving no sign of their passage.  Learn to still your spirit so that even the birds trust to eat seed out of your hands.  Then you will walk gently upon Mother Earth, doing her no harm and living in peace with Creation all around you.  That is how our Mum and Da Creator meant for us to live.”

Then Malcolm became a bird and flew away.

All Souls’ Day

I watch a small group of spirits pass through our yard.  “They are on their way to visit their loved ones living nearby,” says Tom, a small Brownie man standing next to me.

I think upon the foster family who raised me – my mom, dad, brothers, aunts, uncles and both grandmas – all of them now living in the spirit lands.  Now and then I feel their loving presence near me.

Tom, reading my thoughts, gives my leg a few pats.  “Do not worry, lad.  Your family has not forgotten you.  Why here they are now!”  He vanishes as I hear my name called.

The Visit

A gentleman came to visit me while I was sitting beneath a tree.  I was in a meditative state listening to a hidden bird’s exquisite song and gazing down at the golden carpet of autumn leaves at my feet when I noticed a man standing next to me.  He was a slender man wearing a dark derby hat and his best Sunday frayed dark suit.  The man took off his derby and wiped sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief.  Replacing his derby upon his head, he asked, “Excuse me, but do you know where I might find Wilma?”

Looking at the man, I surmised he was a spirit due both to his clothing and to the fact that he looked like an old black and white photograph on a beautiful, colorful autumn day.  “She’s not here right now,” I answered, “but you can come back on Halloween night.  Perhaps she will be here then.”

The gentleman again removed his derby and wiped the sweat from his brow with his white handkerchief, before stuffing it into his pants pocket.  He seemed confused at my suggestion.  “Thank you kindly,” he replied, before vanishing.

A gnome man whispered to me, “Poor man.  He still thinks it is summer.  That is when he died so many years ago.”

“Which is why he kept wiping the sweat off his brow,” a gnome woman added.

Patting my shoulder, the gnome man continued, “‘Tis the season, lad, when the veils between the living and the spirit world get awful thin.”

That being said, I almost expected Wilma to appear at any moment.

 

 

Autumn Light

Sloan, a red-haired Brownie man sitting on the deck railing, points out, “It is easier to see everything as enchanted under the Autumn light.  That is because the Autumn light pulls back the curtain on the mundane things of your world.  You then see everything for what it truly is . . . enchanted.  You see, we faerie folk know nothing in Creation is truly mundane.  That is an illusion suffered by humans.  It is as if you are all under a sleeping curse from which you need to be awakened.  So wake up, the lot of you!”

Clapping his hands, he vanishes into the fading Autumn light.

Anna’s Hope

“In the beginning, when Creation was young, humans, faeries, animals, trees and rocks, we all spoke the same language,” said the fair-haired faerie woman named Anna, her mist gray eyes gazing back into the past. “There were a lot less misunderstandings back then.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts. Looking directly at me, she continued, “It was when we drifted apart, when we became for the first time ‘us and them people,’ when we shattered from one folk into many different tribes – that is when the misunderstandings began. They were at first small misunderstandings, which suddenly grew into terrible wars. It has been the same ever since, except the wars have become more terrible, with more innocent lives lost than ever before.”

She paused, wiping tears from her eyes. “If only we could learn how to speak to one another again, perhaps to understand one another again. Then maybe we could become one people again – humans, faeries, animals, trees and stones. Then war would exist no more.”

She smiled, and with a wave, disappeared into the hedge.

A Faerie Good Morning

In the early morning, as the stars make their way to bed and the sun, yawning, begins his climb into the sky, morning greetings from the faerie folk cut through the dream cobwebs of my sleep.  I try to dig down deeper into sleep, attempting to capture some tattered fragment of a dream that might become a blanket to hide under to protect me from their incessant early morning cheerfulness.  But, like a determined cat, insisting that it is long past time to get out of bed, the faeries keep prodding me with their wide awake banter.

Unlike humans, faeries tend their flower and vegetable gardens beneath the early morning sky.  Wide awake, they are already enjoying their day before even the sun rises from his sleep.  I finally succumb to their expectations of the beginning birth of a beautiful morning and stumble from my bed to be reborn like the day.

Tree Whispers

A brownie man named Edwin spoke with me this Friday morning.  Edwin is a red-haired fellow with bright green eyes.  He wore a green cap atop his red hair, along with a green vest over a yellow shirt, brown pants and boots.  We chatted while we sat on my front covered porch, I sitting in a chair rapidly writing down our conversation, while Edwin perched calmly on the porch table talking and peacefully smoking his pipe.

“So, what did the tree whisper to you through her trembling leaves the other day?” asked Edwin, referring to the day when I was sitting beneath the branches of the Tulip Poplar tree that looms over our back deck.  The wind suddenly picked up, rustling the leaves on the nearby trees, and the tree whispered to me.  “Well?” Edwin waited, puffs of smoke balls circling about his head like small planets.

“I’m not sure,” I replied with some hesitation.

“Not sure?” Edwin raised his eyebrows.

Clearing my thoughts, I tried to recapture the exact words I thought the tree whispered to me.  I think it said, “Why can’t my children love each other the way I love them?”

“The tree said that?” Edwin inquired.

“There’s more,” I admitted.

“Well?”  Edwin stared at me intently.

“The tree claimed to be God speaking.”

“The tree claimed to be God?” Edwin repeated back to me, his pipe momentarily forgotten.

“Well, no,” I responded.  “The tree didn’t claim to be God, but that God was speaking through the whispering leaves of the tree.”

“Do you have some doubts it was God speaking to you?”

“Well, yes, I do.”

Edwin waved his pipe about, “Why is it so strange to believe it was God speaking to you?  God is speaking to us all the time, if we just care to listen.”  Edwin paused. Smiling, he asked, “Would you have believed it was God talking to you if the tree was on fire?  Like Moses’ burning bush?”  Edwin paused, trying to keep from laughing, “Did the tree tell you to take off your shoes because you were sitting on holy ground?”

“No!” I replied indignantly.

Edwin raised his hands, his pipe still putting out gentle puffs of smoke.  “I am just teasing you, lad,” he chuckled.  “So what else did the tree have to say?”

I paused, choosing my words carefully from memory.  “Tell my children to stop hurting one another and to love each other and to show love for my Creation I made with my own hands.”  As I told Edwin the words of the tree, I felt myself trying not to cry.

Edwin placed a small hand on my shoulder. “The things the tree said sound like God to me, lad.  Like I said earlier, God is always talking to us, but do we ever care to listen?”  With a smile, Edwin faded away, taking his small galaxy of circling puff balls of smoke with him.