• CRONE TALES

    THE UNICORN, a fairy tale for enlightenment and wonder

    September 1, 2020 /

    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.  

    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. 

    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. 

    “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. 

    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. 

    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. 

    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.  

    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. 

    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. 

    ~Milarepa, Tibetan poet (1052-1135)

     

    If you liked this story of a unicorn and magnificent solitude, you may wish to receive new Crone Tales for free for a regular dose of WONDER:  SUBSCRIBE

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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

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  • CRONE TALES

    THE MESSAGE IN DIVINE BOXES, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    August 11, 2020 /

    The old wise woman weaves sticks and stems into a wreath but does not nail it upon her door. Instead she walks into the rain wearing the wreath as a crown. Her friends pull her inside, making a fuss, but she only laughs. She says the nest upon her head has reminded her of a bird’s tale. Gather round, sit, and listen to the Crone.

    It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

     

     

    There once was a daughter who was visited by birds each night in her dreams. By day she ran in circles flapping her arms and climbed trees to sing. Other children laughed.

    To protect their daughter from cruel taunts, the parents locked her away inside thick walls. For she was not ordinary.

    The daughter moaned both day and night. She missed the birds and their songs. On her knees, she’d hug herself and rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

    After many years she managed an escape while her parents were away at a wedding. Fast she ran all the night long, deep into the forest, farther than anyone had ever gone.

    She spent the next days building a nest for herself up high in a tree. Birds helped, bringing sticks and stems of things in their beaks. She sat with crossed legs within it once it was complete. Wind settled in the branches around her so that her hair blew about her face, and she beamed with happiness.

    The parents searched for their missing daughter. Three moons passed. As they were ready to give up and go home in grief, a golden glare caught the father’s eye. He investigated and discovered a gold box at the base of a particularly lovely tree. The latch was open.

    Nothing was inside.

    He began to complain when a chorus of birdsong over his head drew his attention. How amazed he was to see his daughter sitting in a large nest cradled in the branches of the tree, wearing a crown of birds upon her head.

    The parents called for their daughter to come down, but she only gazed at them and chirped as if quite pleased with herself.    

    The father fetched a ladder and climbed up to retrieve his delinquent daughter. He was dismayed to discover he’d have to take down the nest as well, because she had been sitting in the nest for so long that sticks and stems had grown into the flesh and bones of her crossed legs and twisted up her straight spine.

    The father was angry that his daughter had gone wild, with a bird’s nest atop her head. “You’re a mess!” he chided. 

    She twittered and chirped.

    The daughter in her nest was very heavy. Her parents were in such a bad mood that by the time they’d carried her out of the forest, they decided to set her down in the middle of the village to be scorned by passersby. So she could learn to be different than she was.

    But villagers gasped in awe to see the daughter open her mouth and sing in the language of the birds. In particular, they marveled at the crown of birds upon her head, and what it might mean.

    Villagers divined that here before them was a holy gift.

    This appreciative take on things proved temporary. The question was raised if the daughter should not be more ordinary to be of use. To prove her worth, the daughter tweeted and chirped on behalf of the villagers to the birds of the sky.

    After hearing what she had to say, the birds flew away beyond the clouds.

    It came to pass that these same birds returned with gold boxes in their beaks, one for every villager. Each box bore multiple doors which could easily be opened. It was fine to take your pick.

    Frightened out of their wits by the unexpected gifts, they consulted the village elders.

    “We must not open the boxes,” proclaimed the elders after thinking too much. “For surely divine messages are inside. And that is scary. None of this is ordinary!”

    The people agreed. “Everything depends on this,” they told one another. “Divine boxes must not be opened!” They submitted to the decree of elders that the daughter wasn’t normal but all kinds of wrong. No matter. She continued to sing on their behalf.

    Gold boxes piled up beneath beds and in cupboards. Unopened.

    Meanwhile, little children found fun in playing with the birds who flocked around the Bird Nest Woman. They practiced sitting as still as she, so that they also could wear a crown of birds. Not only that. Because the woman could converse with the birds, they assumed they could do the same.

    And it was so.

    Mothers and fathers fretted over their little ones chirping and tweeting instead of speaking. Also, the children wore crowns of birds upon their heads into the house come supper time. Mops and brooms became hot but scarce commodities. For this, the Bird Nest Woman was blamed.

    One night the villagers gathered and set her nest afire. But birds flew to her rescue and lifted the nest to carry the Bird Nest Woman up and away into the heavens.

    There her nest remains, forever streaking across the night sky, gold boxes trailing.

    I have not forgotten you still don’t know what divine message lies inside the boxes.

    It came to pass that the little children who had learned the language of birds grew up. When they asked for and received their own gold boxes as grown-ups, they went to open them. 

    They peeked inside.

    After this they were changed. They would never be the same. Like the Bird Nest Woman, they pleased themselves doing new and odd things as a matter of course. But it was more than that.

    Because of what they now knew, they were not ordinary through and through and through.    

    They realized that when it came to who and what they were in the world, the reality was contrary to what had always been assumed. For instance, the box openers insisted there was nothing at all to worry about. They simply grew curious about what to do next no matter the circumstance. They cared nothing about being in control. They only wished to create.

    Instead of being worriers, they grew curiouser and curiouser.

    Despite being adults, not one of them behaved as if the earth was any less delightful than any idea of heaven. They saw no difference between the two and relaxed. 

    A rare few of them had hearts and minds opened so wide that they slipped into knowing they were no one in particular and also everyone in the world. This was even more relaxing. It also increased their sense of responsibility. They loved in every way.

    Listen. There remain unopened gold boxes of divine messages to this day. Given, but not received. If you come upon this village at night, you will know the cottages of those who opened their boxes, for they glow upon the hillside like beacons. Golden light shoots from the windows and up through the chimneys, as if stars had burst inside. If you cross the thresholds of these cottages you will be surprised. The cottages with unopened boxes are dark and anxious. Inside those doors you will find what you expect. 

    On certain nights of the year comes a reminder that divinity wishes to speak. A bird nest on fire trails gold boxes in the sky, a promise beyond the rainbow. Yet everything depends on this:

    Divine boxes are meant to be opened.

    Here’s the upending secret you’re sure to discover if you do:

    For every humdrum thing you believe, the contrary—the not ordinary—will reveal itself to be true.

     

     

    If you liked this contrary story, I hope you SUBSCRIBE to Crone Tales for free 🙂

    Oh–and please leave a comment below! 

     

    Featured image of bird in hand by Lane Jackman

    Image of brown bird by James Wainscoat

    Image of gold box by Kevin Phillips

     

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  • CRONE TALES

    THE WITCHING CHAIR, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    July 26, 2020 /

    While others sleep by crackling fire, the crone flees comfort to see what happens in the frozen wood when no one is looking. She doesn’t care for the same-old. No, she much prefers to lose her mind’s footing, for it is what’s wild and magic she finds reassuring. And how she finds true stories to tell, so wake up! Wipe the sleep from your eyes and listen to the crone’s tale. Remember—

    It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

     

     

    There once was a village in which twelve women donned coats each night to walk hilly streets between row houses. Holding lanterns near their faces, they became known as glowing flowers which seemed to have lost their root.

    When asked, the twelve women would say they were seeking they-knew-not-what. The confession came with shame. For though their lives were good, they wished for everything to change.

    The men of the village didn’t know what to make of this shady lantern business. They huddled over simmering pepperpot and watched through frosted windows as the women roamed all on their own.

    One evening at dusk, a thirteenth woman surrendered to her own mysterious longing which she’d been denying. She bashfully joined the others. Collectively and without discussion, they set out with their lanterns as was the new normal. I must emphasize again how these wandering women had no idea what they were seeking.

    On this night a crone was waiting for them, blocking their way on the street.

    “This seeking without finding isn’t meant to be endless,” announced the crone with an impatient air. “You must go to the witching chair and sit. It’s the only way to satisfy a woman’s longing. You shouldn’t need to be told this. You should have already known.”

    “Where do we find this witching chair?” asked the thirteen women, goodly chastised.

    “You must go to where the full moon is made two—one above and one below.”

    The thirteen women marched in a trembling line to follow the moon as apparently they should have done already. Once outside the village, they grabbed one another’s hands for reassurance. They entered the creaking winter wood.

    The moon slipped in and out of bare branches as they trekked with anxious eyes that stared out from fur-trimmed hoods. There were murmurs of confusion and giving up. But at last, they came upon freshwater and believed they understood.

    There, the moon floated not only in the heavens, but also on the waters of a round lake—two moons.

    In the center of the lake, suspended over the glittering water, was a throne of velvet, blooms, and bones. The women marveled at this fearsome sight. They traipsed in a circle along the gently lapping shore, but there was neither bridge nor helpful stepping stones.

    Six of the women waded into the water, but their clothing was heavy and weighed them down. I’m sorry to tell you they noisily drowned.

    Six more noticed where the others had gone wrong. They stripped naked before beginning to swim, but the icy cold water stole their breath. Now it was the fate of these six to sink into the deep.

    Whether you like it or not, that is where they now belonged.

    When the splashing settled, silence fell over the lake and the last woman, the thirteenth, wept in grief and despair. She knew not how to swim, yet grew weak in her knees at the thought of returning home unchanged.

    Needing help, a simple prayer she spoke.

    Or…perhaps…what wished to happen next the prayer provoked.   

    The waters of the lake parted and lifted to either side. The thirteenth woman’s eyes beheld the way made clear. She bolted along the sandy lake bottom to the witching chair—and was trapped, because as soon as she sat the waters came back.

    After this there was nothing to do but wait as she gripped the arms of the witching chair, rubbing her palms in its velvet and breathing in its sweet blooms. Still she fretted over her predicament and, wishing to pretend the witching chair had no skull bones, her gaze turned to the reflection of the moon quivering on the water.

    To her surprise, the fluid moon began to swing back and forth like a pendulum. Her eyes followed the motion until she became so relaxed that she may as well have been dead.

    Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a white blur. She sat up straight. There! A rabbit. And another! Soon rabbits darted every which way over the surface of the lake. The pawprints left behind glowed in a lovely pattern, and the thirteenth woman laughed, forgetting the closeness of the watery cavern.

    A lumbering bear out of the mist did appear, and she drew up her legs in terror when its huffing breath passed so very near. The bear seemed to pay her no mind and went on its way walking on the waters.

    Next wolves arrived; the pack sat on their haunches to howl like lovesick marauders. After pawing at the moon’s rippling image, they ran off of a sudden.

    The thirteenth woman watched as deer picked their way across the lake in the wolves’ wake. They nibbled at tufts of water. And peeped at her with doe eyes, for her enchantment’s sake.

    It was all so impossible. The thirteenth woman assumed these must be visions. “I’ll test it and see,” she said. She scooted forward on the witching chair and tapped a timid boot upon the fairy shimmer of the lake.

    “As solid as the ground!”

    She stood on two trembling legs, took three careful steps, and kicked off her boots. This is when her soul pried any shyness loose. Flinging out her arms, the thirteenth woman rose up onto her toes. Divine abandon possessed her.

    And she commenced a dance.

    All manner of creatures tweaked their noses, for they smelled the telltale waft of goddess fragrance. The consequence was a furry frenzy. The animals joined the ballet, snapping at the twirling woman’s dress until she bled freely from their love bites—

    The Wild’s Caress.

    However bloody, the thirteenth woman could not stop the dance. Her throat filled with a wild, predestined cadence.

    She threw back her head to howl to the moon. Quite naturally she shifted into the shape of a wolf. She tried on the form of a rabbit and a deer as well, finding herself as comfortable in one as the next.  

    If she were here, she would tell you it was indescribable—much more intimate than being bodily fixed.

    The moon expanded in the sky and glowed so bright that its silvery light reached deep into the fathoms of the lake. The thirteenth woman was reminded of danger and froze.

    She gulped at the sight of the underworld below her bare feet. Countless souls peered up at her with earnest expression and hands that begged, most with strange clothing from long ago.

    The twelve women she knew were there, too, with hair afloat.

    “What is it you want of me?” asked the thirteenth woman. The mouths of the dead moved, but she couldn’t hear a word. Compassion overcame her fear. She beckoned for them to join her above the surface of the lake, so as to be heard.

    A man in a frilly nightgown did so, taking her proffered hand. As they waltzed, he whispered most urgent in her ear before shoving her in the direction of a newly risen other. The thirteenth woman switched partners in quick succession. For in case you do not know, the feet of the dead drag in water to make them sink. Still there were many wet and eager for however brief a spin, and of course a chance to speak.

    The dead asked that she be their messenger. “What is ancient longs to be reborn into this world,” they told her. “You are not hemmed in by the edge of your skin,” they insisted. And more.

    Their urgent and whispered words were both joy and burden to her. For to be their messenger she would lose her life as she had known it. But in exchange?

    Old Magic.

    The dance went on all night long. At dawn, she noticed the witching chair was gone. Quite content and exhausted, she walked toward shore with her last steps sinking beneath the surface of the weird pond. That got her moving! Forgive my cackling.

    The skirt of her dress dried by the time she got home.

    “Did you find what you were seeking?” asked her husband the moment she got through the door.

    She was so dazed she could not answer. The dancing dead and animals had been so very real that this ordinary world of a village, row house, and husband appeared impossible to her. And because it was impossible, a dazzling smile lit her face.

    For this is when she knew the ordinary must be Magic, too.

    “Wife, why do you look at me so amazed?” asked her husband, taking her hand. “Whatever happened that you were gone all the night long?”

    He screamed to wake the village when she showed him. Quickly, she changed from a bear to a harmless and soft white rabbit, but this did not stop the screams. Forgive my cackling.

    You can imagine how the villagers took to this impossible state of affairs when they arrived to see what was the matter. They demanded that the woman stop her devil’s shapeshifting. But the thirteenth woman cried out like a mad prophet,

    “This is Old Magic, nothing new. There is no reason to fear. I have no true outline, nor does God, and neither do you.”

    Let us pause here. If you imagine this is a mere fanciful tale and the woman’s words are nonsense or insane, I will ask you to return with me to the two moons at the lake:

    What I forgot to mention before is how the moon looked down to watch the dance. And when she saw her reflection wavering on the water, she wasn’t confused. The moon knew that no matter how many images of herself might appear, there remains only her, the One moon.

    Don’t be a fool. No matter the appearance of things, the moon can never be two.

    Herein lies Ancient Magic. It is how the thirteenth woman could appear in the image of many beings—she always and already had, as have you, whether or not you wish to ignore this forgotten Truth.

    I’d much rather you find this out for yourself than believe. Why not have a thrill? There’s no end to the wonder Old Magic will bring.

    As for the villagers, they were having none of it. Most ran shrieking for their homes. Others turned pink-cheeked at the impropriety of it all, the husband packed his bags, and a few plotted violence against the thirteenth woman.

    But as it happened, they couldn’t catch her to kill her. Forgive my cackling.

    In the years after, our thirteenth woman could be caught shifting her shape with small children in endless pursuit. When they begged her to give them some of her magic, she would turn ever so slowly and teach with a mother’s rebuke—

    “Do not ask for what you always and already are!”

    Then she’d jump at them with a witch’s fingers. For she never missed a chance to tickle the little monsters, to make them squeal and whoop.

    Old and gray, she was known to dance like a love-struck fool upon a far-off hill at night—with the long feet of a rabbit. This is known to be true because proper adults would sneak off to watch. They just couldn’t help it.

    Secretly…there were those who felt an inexplicable kinship with the woman and wished to join her wild, sacred dance. But few did, for they had yet to give in to their desire for a holy, hot romance.  

    Secretly…they made pilgrimage to the witching chair and longed to take a seat. But few did, for the tragedy that is the worry of what others might think.

    And so, the many suffer. Needlessly.

    Knowing this, to this present day the thirteenth woman cradles her heart and howls for the coming of the One moon.

    Is she you?

     

     

     

    If you liked this tale of witchery and revelation, I hope you SUBSCRIBE  to Crone Tales for free 🙂

    I love to receive comments to see how the crone’s tales are received–you can leave one below, pretty please!

     

    *Featured image of woman with lantern by Enrique Meseguer

    *Image of chair by fefito

    *image of wolf by hanifauk

    (credit for rabbit image is unknown)

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  • CRONE TALES

    The Soul in Bottles and Bread, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    July 8, 2020 /

    Falling snow heaps at the crone’s door, and she opens it and sweeps the stoop. For she remains ready to welcome any who may knock even this late at night—with food. The crone took up this earnest routine once upon a tale, one she will tell you now, if you’re weary and wish to live. Come, listen.

    It’s up to you to find what meaning the story to you can give. 

     

     

    There was an ancient woman who dearly feared making a wrong decision.    

    Her mind conjured a legion of choices to be made each day in her forgotten seaside village. She turned over every possible option and its consequence, fretting over anything from the threat of hoarfrost to the existence (or not) of The Storyteller.

    Villagers knew the entirety of her complicated mental deliberations, for she spoke them out loud without ceasing as she hobbled about the village or sat lonesome on her porch. Most called her bonkers. Her incessant talk with spittle spraying from her lips didn’t help matters.

    You might think she was unpredictable indeed, given her ability to imagine so many different paths to take. Yet the exact opposite was true. She never surprised anyone. At all.

    Least of all herself. Which happens when your small self is trying to make up things for itself. But what’s important to know for our story on this cold, wind-bitten night is this:

    Drops and bits of the ancient woman’s soul were falling away, for she kept her mind grinding at the stone. This did not escape the attention of The Storyteller. For no drop or bit of soul falls to the ground without it being known. 

    And so, The Storyteller poured up some drops of the ancient woman’s soul into a little bottle, and baked some bits of her soul into a small loaf of bread. Into a basket the bottle and bread went. This was when The Storyteller paid a visit to the ancient woman on a seaside’s brisk day.    

     

     

    The Storyteller knocked upon the old woman’s wooden door beneath a thatched roof. Three raps, to be exact. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was ill with overwhelming frets of what she might do wrong next.

    The following day brought three raps upon her door once again. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was weak with anguish over what she could now see were very hurtful things she had done on a great many past occasions.

    A third day brought three raps upon her door yet again. Our ancient woman turned over in her bed and did not answer as she was sheer exhausted with who she believed she was and what she had done, to the point of death.

    This went on until, as it gracefully happened, our ancient woman had a friend over. This friend opened the door when the knocking came. “Oh my!” the friend called out, shielding her eyes. “It is The Storyteller, come to visit you!”

    Our ancient woman had beliefs about The Storyteller and pulled the bedcovers over her head in shame. The Storyteller nevertheless left the bottle and bread with the friend. Upon the first was written ‘Drink Me,’ and upon the second it was written ‘Eat Me.’

    The friend gave the ancient woman a little to drink and a bit to eat.

    Our ancient woman felt better, a little bit.

    It was not her last supper. Day after day The Storyteller poured up a measure more of the ancient woman’s soul into a little bottle, and gathered up a bit more of her soul to bake into a small loaf of bread.

    Once the ancient woman had a good portion of her soul returned to her, she began to laugh. She became like a little child and leapt from her bed at the sound of The Storyteller’s love-knocking.

    She threw open the door, which was the only decision she had ever needed to make. From then on, she had no delusions of being in control. Instead she let go. For all she knew now was to flow and overflow.

    All she knew now was to flow and overflow,

    For she had decided above all to keep hold of her soul.

    Villagers took notice that our ancient woman spoke much less often. This allowed her to do so much more. And everywhere she went, rose petals sprayed from her lips, and the most beautifully clothed lilies trailed behind her feet—without her even having to think about it.

    What came about was a better, wholly unpredictable story than any she could have told on her own.

     

    If you found your own meaning in this Last Supper-Wonderland-Lilies of the Field story, I hope you subscribe to Crone Tales HERE 🙂

     

    *featured photo of old cottage by Mary Bettini Blank

    *photo of bread by Helena Yankovska

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