“Snake!” yowls my cat from the kitchen.  I sit on the living room sofa, pretending I did not hear her correctly.  “Snake!” she yowls again.  I assume my imagination is playing tricks on me.  Surely my cat is not yowling about a snake.  “SNAKE!” yowls the cat yet again.  “Come see!”

I reluctantly lift my tired bulk from the couch to go and see what all the kitty fuss is about. To my surprise, I find my brave cat standing victoriously over a worm lying very still on the kitchen floor.  My proud cat stares up at me and yowls, “See, I told you it was a snake.”

“Good kitty, brave kitty,” I praise her, as I pick up the motionless worm with a paper towel.  I think to myself that she must have brought the worm up from the basement as a gift.

I carry the worm’s small corpse outside, preparing to drop it over the deck railing.  Before, I can do so, a small Brownie man points out to me that the worm is not really dead, but faking it.   Suddenly, the Lazarus worm returns from the dead and begins to slither around inside the paper towel.

Startled at the worm’s sudden revival and mindful of my kitty’s yowls of “Snake,” I drop the wriggling worm onto the hot planks of the deck.

“Need dark, damp earth to crawl into, away from burning sun,” gasps the unhappy worm.

I quickly pluck the worm up from the deck and drop it into the cool, dark moistness of the miniature forest of green plants that dwell within a flower box perched upon the deck railing.

“Nicely done, lad,” remarks a second Brownie man.

“I told you he was faking his death,” the first Brownie man reminds me.

“Nay, he was not faking it.  Poor wee thing passed out from fright,” announced the second Brownie man.

“Nay, he is a clever thing,” retorts the first Brownie.  “He was only pretending to be dead.”

“He was either stunned or the poor fellow fainted,” the second Brownie declared firmly.

Shaking my head, I leave the two Brownies to their philosophical discussion of the cleverness of the worm and return to the cool interior of the house, where my brave snake catching kitty awaits me.


Evening in Between Times

The setting sun’s light seeps between the leaves and limbs of the trees, bathing our  lawn and vegetable garden in hues of gleaming gold.  Tucked safely away, hidden within green leaves, the birds in the trees sing a soft lullaby to welcome the evening.  Below our home, the stream gently murmurs to herself as she flows over her long bed of stones.

Standing quietly on the deck, I hear the Faerie Folk softly wishing each other a pleasant night or issuing an invitation to an early evening dinner at their homes.  Perhaps some evening when the veils are thin, my wife and I will receive such an invitation to come dine by flickering candlelight at the table of a Faerie family.  It is quite possible, if we can open wide enough our heart, mind and spirit to such a magical evening.

Myth or Reality?

I was asked recently, what is your favorite myth?  Well, in every myth or story told by our ancestors, there is a seed of truth. Some take this tiny seed of truth and plant it in their heart where it can become a beautiful garden.  Others plant the seed and surround it with dogmatic beliefs set harder than stone.  There, in this harder-than-rock substance, the seed remains tiny and does not grow, becoming fossilized.  A tiny myth seed, properly planted in one’s heart, can grow into a mighty forest, but if we cut a myth into stone, we cannot see the inherent living truth of the myth.

My favorite myth is that a myth is one of many tiny living seeds of truth waiting to be planted in the rich soil of our heart.

Summer Storm

Our wooden deck adjoins the back of our home, rising high among the trees like the deck of a ship anchored upon an ocean of green leaves.  The faerie folk like to sit atop the honey-colored deck rails and watch the birds flutter and swing on the bird feeder.  I also try to sit upon the deck as still as my faerie kin, so as not to disturb the small birds with my presence.  It is always the brave small birds, rather than their larger feathered cousins, who tolerate my presence the best.

In the near distance, I hear the rolling, rumbling sound of thunder’s drum, warning of an approaching storm. The birds have flown to the protection of the trees, while the faerie folk still seated on the deck rails lift their faces to the darkening gray sky, happily anticipating the storm’s arrival.  “Our dear Mother Earth needs a drink,” shouts one of the faerie men to me, over the sound of the rushing incoming wind.

Should I be brave like my faerie kin and stay on the deck to ride out the storm, or flee inside?  Suddenly inside I go, as the first blinding flash of lightning crackles over my head, and the rain falls in sheets upon the pages of my notebook.

Safely inside, I watch through the window as the small faerie folk stand on the deck rails, arms raised upwards, small hands held open.  With faces lifted upward to the face of the storm, they sing their storm songs, welcoming the wind and rain, and thanking the storm for giving parched Mother Earth a drink of life sustaining water.