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THE WILLOW TREE OVERTURE, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Lanterns light a path where the crone gathers what she needs to brew a tea that shimmers. Take three sips, recite a love poem, and offer the crone a kiss. Come, sit by the blazing fire. The crone is ready to tell the tale of long-lost bliss. Listen.
It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.
It came to pass one late summer’s day that a princess grew tired of being in a long, deep sleep and escaped a castle tower.Â
Taking an unknown road, she came upon a faraway forest village. She was exhausted from traveling and decided to stay for a while. This, despite the fact that the people who lived in this faraway forest village could only offer the princess a crude hut made of branch and not stone.
Come morning of the autumn equinox, a crispy wind blew across the land to swirl and settle over a patch of nearby willow trees on a lake. The spirits of the women within the trees wakened. They stepped free of root and limb and leaf. The weight of flesh came upon them—mostly—and they walked, their nearly boneless arms blowing in the wind, up to the village to give their kissing blessings upon it.
The princess was in a foul mood that fateful morning, for torrents of rain the day before had made a muddy mess of the village. She stood at a well drawing up a bucket of water when she caught sight of the willow women.
Her eyes grew as big as those of any wolf. Quick as a hare she scampered to hide in her hut. Peeking through a crack in the half-rotted wood of the door, she shuddered at the impossible. For she had no idea such a thing could exist:Willowy women, with strange arched backs, whose supple arms billowed in the wind!Â
The princess drew back just as a willow woman’s kiss was set upon her hut’s door.
For the rest of the day, the princess found herself in bliss. Every single thing she laid eyes upon was sheer beauty—be it the splash of chrysanthemum color, a spider’s knotted silk net, or mud upon her skirts. All of it seemed as impossible, as wondrous, as a tree woman with waterfall arms.
Every breath the princess took was deep and fresh and new. Never had she felt so alive.
Right then and there, the princess fell in love with being in bliss. And the mystery of the willow women who knew how to give a kiss.
It so happened that the very next morning the bliss was gone and everything was ordinary again for the princess. Worse, she was found by a royal scout and whisked back to the castle. The king had died in her absence. She was crowned queen and now could not leave. She had responsibilities.
As she performed tiresome duties of decreeing whatnot, all the queen could think of was her blissed-out day bestowed upon her by the mysterious willow women. Nothing at all about the castle or crown interested her in comparison.
“If only I could shirk the burden of this crown and return to the willows,” she complained to the moon as it waxed and waned. She was so desperate over it all that one bitter winter’s night, the moon spoke back:
Â
Bliss
must be courted, now, by you.  Â
Her name is Mystery—
and she must be wooed.
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“This is beyond me to do,” the queen said after thinking it over. She wasn’t one for romance. “Is there another way that’s tried and true?”
But the moon in its glowing white wisdom refused to say another word.
It wasn’t long until the queen developed quite the reputation. She sulked despite her bejeweled gowns and only ever wanted to talk about being kissed by willow trees. Time and again she sneaked out a castle window to run away to the faraway forest village and the willow women, but she never got far before she was caught and returned to the throne.
“This is a horrible, boring place to be,” shouted the queen from where she sat above them all. “What I really, really want is the kiss of Mystery!”Her advisors gathered together to confer about the state of their queen. “If we satisfy her with Mystery, perhaps she will behave better,” they agreed.
A wise woman, a crone, was fetched. She wore purple flowers in her hair.
“Do something about the queen and her desire for Mystery, please,” the advisors beseeched the crone. They shoved her into the throne room, then slammed and locked the door.
The queen perked up. She recognized that before her stood a crone. “Tell me,” the queen wheedled, “do you know the secret of courting Mystery? The moon told me that to be in bliss, I must woo Mystery. The problem is that I find romance ridiculous, so I need help with this.”
The crone tittered. “You don’t know how to be in love with the world? Is this true? How very sad.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the queen said, both ashamed and confused. She fiddled with her crown. “Look. Can you help me or not?”
The crone wished aloud for a breath of fresh winter’s air. As it happened, the queen had a secret door her latest batch of advisors knew nothing about. Soon the crone and queen were strolling the castle gardens, which were not pretty.
“Why are the gardens neglected?” the crone asked.
“I don’t know,” the queen answered, noticing the trampled winter flowers and vines of thorns. She rubbed her cold arms. “I don’t give attention to such things.”
“Ah. Now we know the problem! My queen, perhaps you don’t realize, but you’re in a deep sleep. You need to wake.”
The queen shook her head. “No, that was before. It’s why I escaped the castle tower in the first place. Should I run away again?” She clasped her hands and got excited. “Will you help me to escape back to the faraway forest village with the magical willow women?”
“No. Tell me exactly what the moon said to you instead,” instructed the crone.
The queen deflated. She quoted the moon.
Â
Bliss
must be courted, now, by you.  Â
Her name is Mystery—
and she must be wooed.
Â
“Well, there you go,” the crone said. As if all was solved.
The queen blinked. She had the distinct feeling she was missing something. “Help?” she ventured, flushing pink.
“Open your eyes, my queen,” the crone invited. Her eyes and voice grew sharp as the biting winter wind. “Stop twiddling that crown and pay attention! Any lover desires only to be SEEN in an everlasting way. Should Mystery be different? You’ve been waiting for bliss to appear as it did once before. But the next step in this dance belongs to you. Here. Now. What will you do?”  Â
The queen looked about herself. All she saw was a weedy garden, a gray winter sky clotted with clouds…and a crone with the most beautiful purple flowers in her hair.
Something within the queen shifted. It yawned and stirred.
“Open your eyes and see, my queen,” the crone crooned. “Open your eyes and see what has always and already been here, waiting for you to take notice.” And when the queen wasn’t looking, the crone blew a helpful kiss.
“But I don’t understand…” the queen’s voice trailed away. A sudden warm, fragrant something passed through her body. She felt her limbs melt. She breathed in and r e l a x e d.
And looked about herself again.
Mystery. Mystery was everywhere she could see. Equally, in each and every thing, spread out for her to see and yet hardly believe…
A vine that somehow knew how to grow thorns. A crushed flower that bled the exact same color as wine. Pin-leaves beaded with ice. A sky that was covered by clouds and didn’t mind.
“It’s happened again,” the queen whispered through her tears. She gasped in surprise. “It was so easy! I can’t believe it. I only ever had to look and truly see!”
The crone with purple flowers in her hair winked and went on home. The advisors found their queen serene and vibrant with bliss. How relieved they were that she made no more escape attempts after this. Of course not. There was no need whatsoever.
Mystery was as much here as there and everywhere.
From that day on, the queen of bliss courted and wooed Mystery in this way:
By noticing. By paying attention. By appreciating with eyes of wonder. After all, that anything could actually exist is a thrilling and impossible bliss. Is it not?
Are you awake?
Another surprise was yet to come. One day, Mystery made the next and climactic move—
And married the queen, making her One, which means wholly real and true.
As a divine wedding gift, a willow tree grew overnight outside the queen’s tower. The branches lifted toward heaven only to arch and reach back down for the earth, in love. Wind blew, and limbs brushed the ground with leafy kisses of bliss that could be felt for an entire day by anyone who walked there.
Mystery always makes the first move.
If you enjoyed this willowy love tale of mystery and wonder and want more, I hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES. 🙂Featured image of hut by Florian Kurz–don’t you just love it?!
Image of tree woman by Stefan Keller
Image of castle landscape by Johannes Plenio
Image of ice beaded plant by Gabe Rebra
Image of willow fronds by Annie Spratt
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THE UNICORN, a fairy tale for enlightenment and wonder
A wise old crone stitches a quilt by the fire, her nimble fingers darting the needle as she sings a long-forgotten ballad. Soon faeries may visit, and she’s brewed an apple cider for hospitality. Often the creatures stay and keep her awake all night, telling one tale after another. Would you like to hear a faerie’s tale of solitude’s wonder? Come, listen.
It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.
There was an old woman who lived in a faraway cottage all alone. No one knew she existed, and she wasn’t up to travel. She felt rather ashamed that she should end her life in such a way.
Days were much the same until an unusual rash of summer storms battered her faraway cottage night after night. Even stranger was that the storms summoned witches to the forest. At least, it seemed they were witches, as they had such spindly bodies and laughed quite a lot. Â
You’d think the old woman would make an introduction of herself and ask questions of women who dance in trees, which is a marvel. But after being alone for so long, she feared she no longer knew how to make friends.Â
One night a storm came so fierce that thunder rattled the floor and walls and flue of the faraway cottage. The old woman set down her mug of cider. She stood from her rocking chair to have a look-see out the window, in case there were witches about again. She got a shock.
Two very small blue-ish faces with pinched noses, ears, and chins looked in at her, their foreheads pressed against the window glass. Dragonfly wings fluttered at their backs.Â
“First witches in trees, and now faeries at my window!” exclaimed the old woman. She blinked, and the faeries were gone.
Curiosity took hold, just as it should. She opened her front door and traipsed outside to see if faerie footprints might be in the mud outside her window. She wished to see such a thing. As she bent over with a hand to her aching back, the cottage door slammed shut.
The key turned to lock the old woman out.
Now it was she who peeked in the window. And there the faeries were, thin, wearing hardly a stitch of clothing, and grinning like banshees. They held hands and spun in a circle by the fire. Their dragonfly wings kicked up a fine wind through the cottage, scattering trinkets and upending the aforementioned mug of cider to make a stain on the rug.
The old woman howled in upset, but the faeries ignored her utterly. Next they plopped in her rocking chair side by side and picked up her book to read. She watched their heart-shaped lips move and pages turn while rain soaked her through and through.
This is when the old woman was stricken with loneliness to see what must be two very close and not lonely friends.
When the faeries refused to open the door and let her back in, the old woman wandered most dejected toward the forest. She was cold and dazed and at the last moment remembered about the witches.
The spindly women climbed with ease in the branches of lightning-struck trees. Now that the old woman was close, she could see the witches busied themselves splitting limbs to sit upon and fly, spiraling away into the storm with shrieks of laughter.Â
This is when the old woman was grabbed from behind. A drink of thick nectar was forced down her throat.
The rest of the night was a dream. There was a ballet without shoes, and kidnapping and stealing. There were poems recited of queens and high towers, fingers pulling at her hair, more drinks of the thick nectar, pinches and dress fittings. When dawn came, the old woman found herself propped against her cottage door and rubbing bleary eyes. She went inside to find her faraway cottage in shambles.Â
The rocking chair was overturned. Onions had replaced feathers in pillows. There was a log from the fire in her stove’s pot, and scorched handkerchiefs atop candles. She found only her most colorful socks tucked into mugs. Not one book was on its shelf—and of course pages had been torn out, as we all know how faeries rip out their favorite parts of storybooks to keep for themselves.Â
This is when the old woman remembered that she’d recently been locked outside her home.
“Oh my, was it real?” she asked herself as clouded memories of forest revelry drifted across her mind. Her eyes flew open and she gasped. “Oh my! Did faeries braid my hair?”
Stumbling over the wreckage that was the floor of her home, she stood before a mirror. Indeed, her hair was braided in a breathtaking and intricate pattern, with pink petals tucked in. But that wasn’t all. Â
She wore a magnificent white dress of a billowing, weightless fabric stitched with silver thread. The dress was soft and beaded with drops of dew. When she touched it, the scent of sugar cookies filled the air.
Tears filled the old woman’s eyes, for her reflection was like that of a single, beautiful flower.
This is when she remembered the unicorn:
There had been a midnight revelry, a gathering deep in the forest, when a unicorn had appeared. White and glowing like a precious pearl, it had walked through the midst of all manner of drunken fae creatures. Untouched.
The unicorn had been magnificent in its solitude as it passed by to vanish in the forest.
This memory came to the old woman bright and crisp, and it changed her. It became alive in her. From that day on, she never felt shame at being alone at the end of her life in her faraway cottage.
Rather, she felt magnificent in her solitude.
“I am a unicorn!” the old woman often said as she clasped her hands at her chest with the delighted smile of a child.Â
Years passed with no more encounters or sightings of impossible things. The old woman became very, very, very old and quite frail. One evening she knew to take out the exquisite faerie dress and put it on.
A knock came. She opened the faraway cottage door to find spindly witches. They seemed very excited and held forth a limb freshly split from a tree. With winks and long beckoning fingers, they turned to look up at the starry sky.
The old woman reached for the limb. Gently, she closed the faraway cottage door behind her.
She felt fresh as a dewy flower. And much, much too thrilled to look back.
How beautiful is loneliness.
How beautiful is aloneness and being in the countryside.
In the high mountains, up in the clouds,
The monkeys bounce around in the trees and the birds sing their beautiful songs.
Underneath the waterfalls, you can listen to the sounds of the brook.
The cave hangs around in its solidness, and there is sunshine and moonshine.
But who cares?
The only thing I care about is this beautiful aloneness, which speaks for herself,
And is my constant companion in spite of all these happenings.Â
~Milarepa, Tibetan poet (1052-1135)
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Featured image of unicorn by Anja
(Repurposed) illustration of faeries by Arthur Rackham and edited by Prawny
Image of stars at night by Artbaggage
