A Faerie Morning

Even before the sun rises from his rumpled early morning bed, the faerie folk have already begun their day.  Small faerie women and men gather around and within the small stone circle below our house.  Drinking from their steaming cups of morning brew, they socialize and speak of their plans for the day with their neighbors.

In the trees above, the birds face the dawn and greet the slowly rising sun with song.  This magic of the morning timidly taps at the bedroom windows of the houses nearby.  Inside their beds, humans grasp fitfully at the tattered remnants of their dreams, dreading the sun’s approach and the rude awakening squawk of their alarm clocks.

The Easter Egg Hunt

Once upon a time, as recent as yesterday or maybe even tomorrow, a woman (we shall call her Sadie) rested comfortably in her rocking chair beneath the roof of her front porch. Half awake, half asleep, Sadie was contemplating some of the events from her long life when she heard a voice call out, “Come along. You do not want to be late for the Easter egg hunt, do you?”

Opening her eyes, Sadie beheld, standing before her, a large, gray rabbit wearing a green top hat with openings for his long, gray, upright ears.  A wide green hat band encircled the top hat, with a large 4-leaf clover shamrock tucked neatly beneath the band.  The rabbit also sported a green frock coat with long tails.  “Well, come along,” suggested the rabbit, holding out his paw.

Sadie, as if in a dream and without thinking there was anything the least bit unusual about a large gray rabbit in a top hat and frock coat summoning her to an Easter egg hunt, reached out her hand and took his paw.  She suddenly found herself standing with the rabbit in a most beautiful garden filled with bright flowers of all colors, basking beneath the sun-filled sky.  The birds in the trees sang so sweetly that Sadie was almost brought to tears as she listened to their songs.

Large, beautiful butterflies fluttered about the garden, but then Sadie realized that many of the butterflies were winged faeries.  She also spotted doll-sized male and female faeries carrying Easter eggs about the garden.

“Hello!  I am so glad you came to help me find Easter eggs.  The faeries are ever so good at hiding them.”  Sadie looked down and saw a beautiful little girl gazing up at her.  The little girl looked ever so familiar, but she could not remember who she was.  “Here,” said the little girl, handing her an empty basket.

“Time to begin the Easter egg hunt!” declared the large rabbit, clapping his furry paws together.

Together, Sadie and the little girl hunted for the Easter eggs they found hidden beneath flowering bushes and tucked up on easily-reachable limbs of trees.  Sadie tried to let the little girl collect most of the eggs, but the little girl would have none of it.  After a very pleasant time of hunting eggs, filled with laughter, the little girl, over the old woman’s protestations, made sure to divide the colorful eggs evenly between the two of them.

Sadie finally admitted to the little girl, “I feel I should know you, but I just can’t remember your name.”

The little girl laughed gaily.  “I am you, silly.  You left me behind long ago when you grew up and stopped believing in magic.”

And with that, Sadie’s eyes snapped open, and she found herself back in the rocking chair on her front porch.  “What a wonderful dream,” she murmured to herself.

“You forgot your Easter egg basket,” said the large gray rabbit, handing her a basket filled to the brim with brightly colored Easter eggs.  With a wink and a tip of his top hat to her, the rabbit quickly disappeared.

Sadie remained out upon her porch, rocking gently back and forth in her rocking chair.  Cradling the Easter basket in her arms, she smiled at the wonderment of it all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dog Dancing

My dog dances beneath the delicate falling snowflakes, while small Faerie Folk form a circle and begin clapping their hands in time with her leaps and twirls.  A Faerie man begins playing a tin whistle, while a woman sounds the heartbeat of the dance with her Irish bodhran.

Quickly forming a circle, the Faerie begin dancing as couples, weaving in and out around the circle.  “Come join us,” they shout to me, but I am concerned that my neighbors might observe me dancing alone in the snow, for they perhaps do not see the Faeries as I do.  Instead, I bid the dancers farewell, and, with a sad smile and a wave, my loyal dog and I retreat inside.

Magic or Rubber Boots?

A long, pointed, yellow stone rests peacefully on its side just above the waterline of the tumbling, sun-sparkling, wintry waters of the stream.  There are actually two stones I long to get my hands on.  I wish to bury the long yellow stone in the earth like a stone seed, its sharp, pointy end upwards, as a marker, a guide to my small stone circle below.  The other stone is white and roundish, like the top of someone’s head.  My wife would like this stone.  The problem is, both rocks are on the other side of the stream from me.

“Tough luck, lad,” empathizes a Faerie fellow with blonde hair.  With otherworldly grace, he leaps across the stream and gives both rocks a friendly pat.  “Are these the rocks you and the missus wants?” he asks with a mischievous smile.  I nod.

“Well, if you believe hard enough, you can call them over to you,” he says, quite seriously.  I frown at him, but he just shrugs.  “Or you can put on your waders and swim for ’em.”

Magic or rubber boots – it seems those are my two options.  The Faerie fellow across the stream sits on my wife’s round rock.  He smiles at me and then stares down the stream, as if pondering the question.

Brigid’s Mantle

Upon Faerie Hill’s green grass, tiny sheep graze.  Newborn lambs stay close to their mothers.  All are watched over by Brownie shepherds holding crooked staffs in their hands. On St. Brigid’s Feast Day – also known as Imbolc, the Celtic festival of lactating ewes – there will be plenty of milk for all.

Crows caw, the cold wind blows, but beneath the tattered remnants of winter, Brigid’s green mantle unfolds with the promise of spring.

Winter Storm

With the coming of a severe winter storm, human activity diminishes somewhat, giving our Mother Earth some much needed rest.

On the snow-covered hill behind our home, Faerie Folk sled down the icy hill on their beautiful, polished wooden sleds. Faster than the wind, they fly over the icy waters of the narrow creek, coming to rest safely on the other side with a whooshing spin of snow and ice.  Laughing, they drag their sleds back up the hill to do it all over again.

Some of the Faerie have created little snowmen and snow women, but with a special Faerie touch.  With their pointed ears and caps, the snow people look more like snow Faeries than snowmen.

There are also snow angels being made, and a good-natured snowball fight has begun.  A Faerie man is waving for my wife and me to join them – Faeries against humans.  I consider it, but with just the two of us and hundreds of them, we just might be buried beneath enthusiastically-thrown snowballs, so I politely decline.

The Grace of an Elderly Cat

The neighbors’ elderly orange cat strolls slowly down the Faerie hill to the liquid sunlight-filled stream below.  The cat pauses a moment on the stream’s green, grassy bank.  Then, with a graceful leap, he sails over the glistening waters of the narrow stream, landing neatly on the grassy edge of the other side.

The Faerie Folk, impressed with the ancient cat’s youthful agility, break out into wild applause.  The old cat barely registers the racket of their appreciative clapping.  Gifting the Faeries with a look of kitty disdain, the old fellow continues on his way home.

Another Summer’s Day in Winter

“Strange weather we are having,” remarks the small Faerie man standing next to me on the bank, as we watch the sun-sparkling waters of the stream flow  past us.

“Strange indeed,” I agree.  Suddenly I have a vision of Grandmother Winter lying back upon a blanket, enjoying the feel of the sun’s warmth upon her face.  I tell my Faerie friend of that brief vision.

He chuckles.  “That does sound like the old girl.  Even though she be Grandmother Winter, she does still like the warmth of the sun to warm her old bones.  I wonder,” he muses, “if Summer is visiting us in Winter, will Winter pay us a visit in Summer?”

“I wondered that myself,” I tell him,  “when a group of visiting Sprites expressed the same question to my wife and me a couple of weeks earlier.”

The small man replies, “It is as if the weather cannot make up its mind about what it should be.  Should I be Winter, or should I be Summer, or both at the same time?”

He shakes his head.  “Still, we should not take an unexpected gift of sunshine for granted.  I am off with the missus to enjoy the remains of a sunny day.  And I hope you feel the warmth of the sun on your face this day.”  With a tip of his pointed hat, he disappears into the warm sunshine.

[Written during the summer-like days of December 2015.]

 

 

Streamside Faeries

The newborn Yule sun glimmers weakly through the gray clouds, illuminating the green Faerie hill below.  On the hill, some Faeries go about their daily business, while others take time to lie back upon the green grass, basking in the pale sunlight.

At the bottom of the hill, a narrow stream made wild by days of rain roars its intention to leap its earthen banks, tumbling small and large rocks along in its wake.  Faeries standing and sitting on its banks feel the surging power of the stream thrumming within their hearts, their spirits surging with the rushing waters of the stream.

 

Faeries in the Wind

A small faery man laughingly greets me as I step outside my back door, “I see the house cabbage has decided to step out to face the sun.”

“It’s a little chilly outside, with the wind,” I weakly point out, trying to defend myself.

The faery man chuckles, “This wind is merely a babe compared to the winds coming later this winter.  While you tall folk brave the cold huddled inside your warm, cozy homes, we faerie folk will be outside in the worst of it – skating on the slippery ice, skipping lightly across the mounds of snow, holding our arms out trying to catch the freezing wind, and twirling round and round beneath the blizzard of falling snow.  We love to be outside in all kinds of weather.  Warm or cold, it does not matter to us!”

“You do spend some time indoors, don’t you?”

The faery man smiles.  “Of course we do, my silly friend.  ‘Tis grand to sit in front of a blazing hearth fire with your loved ones and a hot cup of chocolate, or something stronger, in your hand.”

With a smile, he gazes down at the shimmering stream journeying past at the bottom of our hill.  He gives me a friendly wave, “Still, we faeries do love all kinds of weather,” he calls back to me, as he wanders off to catch the wind.