Here comes the soft, murmuring patter of a light summer rain upon green leaves and the stony pathway. On the covered porch, my timid weather-wise self stays dry; that is, until the cheerful song of the birds within the trees shames me out of my dry sanctuary to join them in the rain. Together we enjoy the jewel-like raindrops of liquid light falling upon us. I hover beneath the canopy of the trees, with the birds above me hidden among the many branches of leaves. Standing there among the green, I become part man, part tree, listening to the Faerie Folk humming to themselves in the rain.
My wife nurtures a faerie garden in front of our home. Her loving care must make this garden a wonderful place to live for the faeries. On a clear, bright day, I sit beneath an archway formed by a cascading, stained-glass green canopy of maple leaves. A stony pathway wanders beneath this archway, leading to our cottage hidden behind a tall faerie thorn tree. This archway, with its cascading waterfall of green leaves, hides a faerie vortex, a faerie pathway that runs along the stony path to our home.
Most people have better sense than to sit in the middle of a faerie pathway, but I don’t. Sitting beneath the tree, I look over to my right at a two-foot tall cream-colored statue of St. Francis. Ignoring my presence, St. Francis keeps his gaze upon the heavens above. Across the pathway of stone, a much smaller aqua-toned version of him gazes serenely back at his big brother.
I place my feet ever so gently upon the green moss that grows here. The soft, fragile moss has inched its way up to the very edges of the pathway stones. Across the pathway grow small faerie mounds of green juniper. Within the mounds, I can see miniature round doors and windows. A tiny Bree fellow, perhaps 4 inches tall, seats himself comfortably upon the soft material arm of my folding chair. Crossing his left leg over his right and resting his chin upon his hand, he leans forward to greet me. Smoke wafts peacefully up from his pipe as we sit together in silence.
The sun plays a game of shadows and light upon the juniper mounds and the towers of gently swaying, tall and slender purple and pink flowers that rise up beside them. Through a magic window framed by branches and green leaves, the Bree and I can see the forest-covered mountain rising up before my wife’s and my small cottage. A tremendous sense of peace fills me as I sit before the tall mountain, and, just for a moment, I become Bree-sized, and our small cottage lies hidden among the juniper mounds.