• CRONE TALES

    THE MAIDEN WHO WAS WASHED OUT TO SEA, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    April 29, 2020 /

    Outside the cottage window rain falls and may never stop. Ships are said to be lost and do wreck upon the rocks. Gather round, listen as the crone tells us the tale of a life changed by a long-ago falling rain.

    Find what meaning you will.

     

    There once was a maiden doted on by an entire village. Not a day of anguish had she ever known. This remained true until the village miller insulted a wandering sorcerer by mistake on a bright summer’s day.

    The touchy sorcerer pointed his crooked stick at the sky, thunder boomed, and the heavens split open. The maiden’s village washed into the sea. She was alone in her childhood home at the time and completely unaware.

    When she thought to wonder at the leaking roof and sounds of splashing against the walls, she opened the front door. The maiden gaped in confusion to see wooden houses like hers bobbing on enormous swells of dark water.

    “Papa!” she shrieked.

    Though she heard gurgling screams, the maiden received no answer from her father. She stood in the doorway and watched as countless villagers she loved slipped beneath the capsizing sea.

    Frantic, she searched the house but found no Papa. The library was locked as usual, but no one answered from inside. The house pitched in the waves and she cut open her feet on broken bowls of glass. Her head began to pound. That’s when she found a closet in which to sit and howl.

    By the next morning she had gone a bit mad. She jumped into the waves, intent on swimming toward the wind-carried voice of the cobbler’s wife from another bobbing house.

    Tiny mermaids like minnows punctured our maiden all over with sharp teeth as she swam. There was not a small loss of blood. She barely had strength to pull herself back onto her porch. Leaning against the door, she looked out to see thousands of minnow-sized mermaids lifting their tiny hairless heads out of the sea to grin at her.

    Back in the closet our maiden went.

    Until she needed to eat. The cobbler’s wife shouted instructions, and our maiden sobbed as she dutifully ripped her dresses into strips to make nets. With these she managed to catch fish for her suppers.

    Winter came. Our maiden stepped out on the porch to see ice chunks floating in the sea. And yet still the tiny mermaids circled her house, having put on blubber for the colder waters. Carefully, she knelt with grumbling stomach to pull up her nets.  

    The fish had got loose. The knots of the nets had been untied. Baffled, the maiden blinked when ten thousand tiny mermaids rose to hold their heads above water. They wiggled clawed fingers for her to see.

    “Oh, you unknotted my nets, you evil creatures!” the maiden screeched, pulling out her hair until she was half-bald. If you envision this correctly you will see she was no longer recognizable as the person she once was.

    Later as our maiden shivered, muttered gibberish, and swept ash from the hearth, she found a key hidden between two stones.   

    This was how she gained entry to her Papa’s library. She toted books to make a big crackling fire and warm her blue fingers and toes. Book after book she tossed upon the hearth. With nothing better to do, she opened one of the books and began to read.

    The creaking house on the sea faded away. Our maiden lost all sense of time. Winter passed into spring with our maiden in wonder over worlds she’d never known could be. Her loneliness vanished, for she discovered that reading was the same as being in conversation with a great many voices.

    When she’d read all the books, our maiden read them again. By this time a light had come into her eyes.

    She needed more stories; she couldn’t get enough! Knowing exactly the kind she liked, she began to make them up.

    Sitting on the porch as she imagined scenes on the swells of sea, she told a tale out loud. The tiny mermaids gathered to listen. They swooned from her poetic prose. Just when the heroine was set to die—our maiden fell silent.

    The mermaids flipped. They thrashed the sea with their tiny tails while the maiden serenely waited. At last they gave up and spoke together in one melodic voice: “You understand us, you know our peculiar pain. For how else do you tell this tale of sorrow, this story of utter rage? We beg you for the ending. How will we—she—be saved?”

    And our maiden leaned so close, she smelled the mermaids’ salted breath. She whispered the heroine’s transformation and how it came to be.

    The mermaids wept in one another’s arms and died a little death.

    How amazed our maiden’s neighbors were to see her walking on the sea. For the mermaids made a moving carpet for her to set her feet.

    The sea villagers had once known a meek and silly maiden, and now before them was a woman wise. She held them captive with grand stories and gazed upon them with calm eyes.

    To say the maiden’s ordeal had made her who she was is not exactly true. There was another ingredient, there must have been, or else her neighbors would have changed as had she.

    The secret, of course, was in the locked library.

    When a woman is shown the world and hears its many voices inside of books, she naturally feels compassion and moves to soothe its many hurts.

    Not long thereafter the houses of the sea villagers washed up upon the beach of a beautiful queendom. To enter the pearl gate required words of wisdom, and the maiden was chosen to offer such on behalf of them all.

    “I know who I am,” she said in great humility. 

    “And who is that?” the queen asked.

    “The many in one woman,” our maiden answered.

    The gate swung open. The queen recognized a crone, however young, when she met one.

     

    If you enjoyed this fairy tale for enlightenment, you may subscribe to receive Crone Tales for free HERE.

    And please leave a comment below, I LOVE COMMENTS!  🙂

    And yes, that IS a vintage Cinderella image and I DID replace her glass slipper with a stack of books.

    ~Cricket

     

    Comments
  • CRONE TALES

    The witch in the wishing well, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    April 15, 2020 /

    On the cottage porch is both sunshine and shade. Women gather here with silver spoons and marmalade. Cozy beneath quilts, the crone rocks in her chair and remembers a witch who found transformation deep in the earth. Would you like to hear the tale? Listen. Find what meaning you will.

     

     

    A patch of dark forest encircled a witch’s cottage in the middle of a village. Also in this village were cruel children who tormented a small girl with a lisp and crossed eyes. Day after day they dropped her down a wishing well and left her to scream in terror.

    In an effort to have one day’s peace, our little girl hid in the patch of dark forest. That’s when she got to watching the witch’s cottage and got an idea. For she knew that no one messed with a witch. Not even wolfish children.

    “If I had the power of a witch they couldn’t hurt me again!” she declared and marched up to the cottage.

    The witch opened the withered wooden door. “I always wanted a daughter,” she said.

    Our little girl slipped inside. The door closed tight.

    Twelve years passed with no villager seeing the little girl and thinking nothing of it (not even her parents). In the meantime she studied as apprentice to the witch. When she finally turned the last page of the witch’s ancient book of magic, she declared herself safe from the wolfish children ever hurting her again.

    “It’s time for me to get out of this cottage for a while,” she said with relief, for twelve years is a long time to study. The witch stayed behind as she was now old and decrepit in her bed.

    As it turned out, the wolfish children had grown up as well, but the new witch of the village recognized them at once. As she passed them by, with a tilt of her head to bring them into focus with her crossed eyes, she spoke with guttural verse the spells to get her revenge.

    The grown children’s eyes widened and turned milky white to make them blind. Their tongues shriveled in their mouths to become ash. They spit and spat. The villagers shrieked in fright and huddled with bowed heads as the new witch walked through the village with her chin held high.

    When she got good and ready, she returned to the cottage in the patch of dark forest. “You are the only one left who doesn’t fear me!” she declared with glee.

    “Even I do, a little,” the old witch said from her bed. “You are a better, more heartless witch than ever I was.” And then she died with pride. Now the witch’s cottage belonged to the witch with a lisp and crossed eyes.

    In an effort to appease the new witch in the village, a cake was baked and delivered to the cottage in the patch of dark forest. Brave villagers placed it upon the doorstep, knocked, and ran away quick as rabbits.

    Our witch opened the door. Her jaw dropped in surprise. No one was there and so she lifted the cake and took it inside.

    “They remembered my birthday,” she exclaimed and sliced into the cake with the excitement of a little girl. But her smile fell away when a frog’s leg stuck to the edge of the knife. When she placed a piece of the cake upon a plate, no less than six bulging frog eyes stared back at her.

    Our witch grew very, very still. “This is what they think I eat,” she whispered to the empty cottage.

    There are moments in life and this was hers. She received unsolicited (divinely delivered) proof that she was never going to get things arranged so she could be happy. For our witch, the proof was not in the pudding, but rather in the cake.

    A froggy cake. 

    Our witch with a lisp and crossed eyes sat before the hearth’s fire, wrapped in blankets, and wept for her existence.

    By midnight she was curled up in the corner on the floor.

    By dawn she’d left her cottage forever to go stand at the wishing well. “I wish I were dead,” she said. And, with no help from a wolfish pack of children, our witch placed a bare foot in the well’s bucket and held tight to the rope to lower herself down the narrow well and into the water far below.

    You may be unaware, but when a witch sits unmoved with her demons, they will at some point give up tormenting her and go away. They will leave her in peace. It was no different with our witch.

    After 40 or 49 days (depending on which version of this story you hear), the sun shone into the depths of the well. It did this with Silence and not with a spell.

    Thereafter, our witch felt quite content to stay put.

    Villagers (who had no idea the witch could hear) stood by the well and begged for their wishes to come true, tossing in copper coins as bribes to they-knew-not-quite-who…

    “If only my feet were tiny…”

    “If only I could spin straw into gold…”  

    “If only I was kissed by a prince…”  

    Our witch in the wishing well heard every word. She felt pity for those who believed they needed their wishes to come true, for she knew what it was to be frightened—and thus confused.

    And so, she answered each wish with a wordless spell.

    Not one spell she cast indulged a belief of what would set things right. There was no spell cast for beauty or riches or a whole different life. The spell for each well-wisher was the same. It was

    One. Spell. Only.

    (There was only one she’d ever needed to learn, only one to have on demand. Let this be a lesson to you who believe thick ancient books will give what only a stint in stillness can!)

    She’s still there in that well, our witch with a lisp and crossed eyes. If you find her, ask for what you will, but know this: Your wish won’t matter to her one little whit. Like everyone else, you’ll get the same gift:

    An overflowing bucket of not needing to wish.

    Ahh…you’re waiting for the revelation of the spell. I’m sorry to tell you that I cannot tell it, for a wordless spell cannot be put into words. Do not feel anxious, for this will not stop you from receiving it.

    Neither can I tell you the end to this story, for how could the experience of immortality ever end? It is an everlasting

    “And she lived happily right now.”

     

    If you found meaning in this witchy story and would like to receive Crone Tales for free via email (I write about two a month), you can subscribe HERE.

    Comments
  • CRONE TALES

    The ogress who proposed marriage, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    March 31, 2020 /

    Sprites dance in a trail of stars along the water’s edge and beneath the bridge to pinch the toes of trolls. Stories live here, and tiny mouths pass them in twinkles. The crone has ears to hear such tales, and she knows one to tell for those who cannot bear things they have once done. Sit and listen. 

    Find what meaning you will.

     

     

     

    There was a maiden in a quaint village near a bubbling brook filled with spirits, sprites, and spoons. She tried her best to be a beautiful and proper girl, suitable for a fine marriage match. But it was all a lie. 

    One breezy evening the villagers celebrated a bang-up summer crop with music and dancing. The maiden twirled, careful to hold out her hand prettily and step lightly. Suddenly, there were gasps and cries of fear. 

    An ogress interrupted the dance. She held a wildflower, aglow with tiny fairies buzzing about its nectar. Her bulbous chin quivered. She was an emotional ogress.   

    “I want us to be happily ever after,” the ogress said to the maiden. She buckled to one knee. “Will you be my wife?” 

    The maiden’s mother rushed to her daughter and wrapped a protective arm about her shoulders. “How dare you humiliate my daughter,” she spat. In a fever she shrieked: “Pitchforks! We need PITCHFORKS here!”   

    Villagers jeered at the ogress. Roosters clucked in panic. The wildflower’s tiny fairies opened wide their eyes. 

    “Wh—why do you pr-propose?” the maiden stammered, keenly aware of all eyes upon her. “You are an ogress, an unacceptable match for me. Um. Off you go?”     

    The ogress appeared confused. She stretched forth the wildflower. Tiny fairies buzzed the maiden’s nose. 

    The maiden swatted and turned her face away.   

    Having misplaced their pitchforks, villagers threw tomatoes on forks at the ogress. She shielded her head with an arm and hurried away. When no one was looking, the maiden ran after her to the bubbling brook of spirits, sprites, and spoons. There she found her beloved ogress waiting as usual but dripping tomato sauce. 

    “Forgive me,” the maiden begged, falling to her knees and taking the ogress’s enormous hand. “But why did you not follow our plan to elope? There is no other way for this to work.” 

    The ogress trembled. Now she knew for sure what she was: ugly—and  smelly besides. (It may be you are unaware that an ogress’s eyesight is poor, and she believed the maiden swatted at her nose due to stink, for the ogress could not see the tiny fairies which buzzed at the maiden’s face.) 

    “You should marry someone else,” the ogress whispered to the maiden. And our ogress lumbered away.   

    This is how our maiden’s heart came to stop. She fell into a sleep so deep no one could wake her. The mother paid healers to come. They offered spoonsful of potion to the maiden’s lips and prodded her feet with red hot pokers from the hearth, all to no avail. “What a disappointment she was,” said her mother. “There will be no grandchildren.” And she left our maiden for dead on her bed.

    The spirits, sprites, and spoons found this state of affairs to be tragic. “True love will wake her,” they promised and searched across the queendom for the ogress. After three years they found her in a valley of buttercups and told her of the maiden’s sleeping death.    

    The ogress dropped everything. 

    Villagers screamed in rage to see the ogress again. She paid them no mind and entered the cottage where the maiden lay with no beating heart. The ogress found a bowl and filled it with water. She washed the maiden’s long hair as she reminisced. 

    She had many stories. “Do you remember when we–?” each began. The maiden’s eyelids fluttered. The ogress spoke quiet and slow, loud and fast, depending on the story. All ended with the ogress laughing. The maiden smiled in her sleep and stirred. She woke just as the ogress began the last story they shared together. 

    The ogress laughed when she finished the tale of betrayal, and the maiden was astonished. (She was forever astonished at things; this is why the ogress had fallen in love with her in the first place.) 

    “You laugh at how I hurt you,” she exclaimed. “How can this be? Have you really forgiven me?” 

    “You require no forgiveness,” the ogress said with a light heart. This is how she set the maiden free. For no words of forgiveness could ever take away the maiden’s guilt and shame—only the ogress’s own freedom from the betrayal could do such a thing. 

    “You are grinning at me,” the maiden pointed out. Still astonished.   

    “I no longer believe bad things about myself,” the ogress said with a shrug. “It’s a simple thing, once you see the good sense in it.”

    Our maiden’s face was sore confused. The ogress couldn’t hold it back. She began to giggle. She laughed so long and hard and true that the maiden herself began to chuckle. Soon they fell to the floor together with laughter. It is late and this is a good place to end this tale. 

    You should know this is a true story. The spirits, sprites, and spoons bore witness to it all. When they told this tale across the land, there was amazement. “What is this hair washing nonsense?” many a peasant and nobleman asked. “The ogress was supposed to kiss her. Why didn’t she give her a kiss?”   

    The spirits, sprites, and spoons gave answer in one gentle voice, which is how the best answers are given. “Even better. The ogress gave her laughter.” 

    “And did they marry?” the many asked. (They just didn’t get it.) 

    At this point the spoons rightly lost their patience, but the spirits and sprites replied. “No. Happy endings prefer to happen in unexpected ways. The ogress had married a princess while the maiden slept. But that’s another story.” 

    “And the maiden?” 

    “She lived a long life astonished by things. She freed everyone she could of regret and shame by never believing they could hurt her. To be astonished and to offer freedom is all that is required to be a crone, so you could say that is what became of her. She was halfway there from the beginning.”

     

     

    Comments
  • CRONE TALES

    The Skeleton Godmother with Pox, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    March 18, 2020 /

    Mice scurry in the village seeking bread and cheese. A crone with a basket drops crumbs, so soft is her heart for tiny things. And for you as well, no matter how insignificant you feel. Listen now to her tiny tale.   

    Find what meaning you will.  

     

     

     

    There was a ghost who was beginning to forget who she once was.  

    She lived in the house in which she died, looking out over the gardens of her estate from the triangle attic window. On occasion, her husband visited the attic and caught glimpses of her. This happened less often as time passed.

    The day came when he could not see her at all, no matter how frantically she waved her arms during lightning storms.

    A great terror assailed the ghost: Who was she now? No one! Both unseen and unheard. Not only that. There was nothing specific in all the world for her to do. She did not matter.

    Who was she now? No one! This left her bereft.

    One day she sat staring out her triangle attic window when she saw a skeleton picking blackberries from a bush. Lonely, she gave it a wave of her ghostly hand.

    How startling it was to see the skeleton move like a flash! The ghost next heard a knock at the door. She drifted downstairs and called out in blood-curdling voice, “Come in if you will. I am a ghost and cannot open the door.”

    The doorknob rattled. It turned ever so slow. Next the door opened with a creak and a glow.   

    There on the porch stood a skeleton with pox. The ghost recoiled, but upon closer inspection, she could see the pox spots were mere bits of blackberry stuck to its teeth and ribs. Still, it was a horrifying sight to have upon her porch.

    Not wishing to be rude, the ghost warbled. “May I ask who is calling?”

    The skeleton chittered its teeth. To the ghost’s wonder, she realized she understood the chitter as speech.    

    “I am your skeleton godmother,” the poxy skeleton said, “here to reveal your deepest wish.”

    The ghost laughed.

    The skeleton godmother plucked a stray briar from within its ribcage and held it aloft like a wand.

    The ghost laughed.

    And yet she wondered, did the skeleton speak true? After all, it did shine bright like a true godmother might. The ghost decided to give it a chance. “I already know my deepest wish,” she curdled. “I want to matter, to be seen and heard. Will you wave your briar wand and break this grief of being no more than a ghost in the world?”

    Chittering with poetry most beautiful, the skeleton godmother flourished its briar wand. A great wind began to blow and twist. The house did lift in its blustery fist.  

    “Let it go,” the skeleton godmother chittered to finish its poetic incantation. “LET IT GO!”

    I hope you understand how it is with ghosts. They are tied to the place in which they once lived. The ghost therefore had no choice. She hitched a ride upon nail and board. Caught in the twister, she came frightfully undone as she tumbled and soared.  

    The house was obliterated. The ghost was left with neither the features of her face, nor the shape of her body. This rendered her utterly unrecognizable in any ordinary way.

    What she once was had been stripped clean.

    She could not have been more stunned to discover what she really was. 

    Though nowhere in particular to be seen, she found herself sprinkled upon all things. And when she spoke, it was with the sounds of birdsong, wind, and rain.

    And as for her husband, whom she loved so dear…

    He recognized and loved this truth of her as he never had before. When he smelled a flower, it was her. When rain slipped down the shingles of his house, it was her. When wisdom hooted outside his window, it was her.

    How could she have known such a grace only ever happened by letting go of what she thought she once was? Pay attention, for this may happen to you:

    What the ghost most feared, turned out to be a wish come true.

     

    Heaven on earth always surprises like this.

     

     

    There is always a truer wish in your heart awaiting discovery. Be brave and know this: fear often heralds grand transformation.

    Expect this transformation to take place within your awareness—a new perception of what has always and already been true.

    I wonder…might you not be contained by your body, any more than the ghost turned out to be contained by hers? It does seem a bit far-fetched to believe our souls fit into our bodies, rather than the other way around. Don’t you think?

    Perhaps you are seen and heard and KNOWN on a scale you don’t realize.

    And never apart. Perhaps what you really are is everywhere.

    Like fairy dust spread by a skeleton godmother.

    Comments