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The Woman Who Grew Labyrinths, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Grasses rustle and whisper secrets of what women will do for this world. Follow the crone as she walks in meadows, trailing words to encourage tiny creatures to come out and play. Stay close. For the crone will tell a tiny tale, meant to open our hearts and minds and make of us dragon butterflies.
Find what meaning you will.Â
A PEASANT WOMAN PREFERRED ROAMING MEADOWS TO DOING WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE.Â
Villagers treated her as they would a leper, for she was of no use to them. But perhaps no trouble, either. For she lived in a house no one else would: Its roof was a dragonâs hide with pointed scales for shingles, and dark smoke belched from its chimney most foul.Â
The house often leaned as if ready to take flight, its leathery shutters flapping to catch wind. Men waited in fright to see. And there the peasant woman would come, traipsing out her front door with bare feet in sinful manner.Â
âNo man will marry her though she weeps for children,â village women would say. âAnd rightly so! For what good could come of a woman who roams?â But the merchantâs wife pitied the peasant woman and knocked upon her open door. Once inside, she saw table and floor heaped with seeds.Â
âThe wind carries them through the flapping shutters,â the peasant woman explained as she washed a teacup in haste. Â Â
âI meant to befriend you,â whispered the merchantâs wife as she backed to the door. âBut this is just too weird.” And she stumbled outside to watching villagers who laughed and cheered. Â Â
Shamed, the peasant woman set about to clean, filling her pockets with seeds. She made a bowl of her skirt to gather more, and in fear of more visits dumped them out her back door. There she noticed it was a beautiful day, which as usual she could not resist.Â
Out she went to roam the meadow, but her pockets hung heavy with seeds. She filled her palms and threw them as she danced with the wind, for she was starting to get a little dragon in her from living in the house.Â
She spread her arms like wings. She swooped and spun and dropped seeds.Â
When the villagers awoke the next morning, they were amazed to see a labyrinth of flowers grown in the meadow. High it loomed with singing birds and sweet scent! Children clapped hands and exhausted women did smile. It became the talk of the village and soon the next and the next.Â
Many made pilgrimage to see the bloomed labyrinth and walk to its center. âVerily, this is balm for what ails!â they declared.Â
One day the birds in the labyrinth sang warning to the peasant woman: The kingâs men were coming to take her away. With trepidation she peeked through the blooms of her labyrinth to see a royal carriage arrived at her house.Â
âThe king requires you at the castle,â the driver did say and whisked her away. Â
At castle court the king did not speakâit was his queen. âPray, peasant woman, will you grow a labyrinth for me? For I am filled with stones and wish to walk among blooms for magic healing.âÂ
As luck would have it, seeds filled the peasant womanâs pockets. She got to work right away, which is to say she roamed on the next windy day. Come morning, a most beautiful labyrinth of blooms grew before the castle. The queen was pleased.Â
âPray, I wish to have my own magic as do you,â the queen confessed to the peasant woman in private. âBut I fear I have none. If I do, what could it be?âÂ
The peasant woman gave question in place of an answer. âMy queen, what can you not resist?âÂ
The queen blushed red and trembled. âIt is wrong for me to say, but I cannot resist peeking over the shoulders of scribes. What good can come of it?â Â Â
The peasant woman lifted her chin and spoke most sincere. âMy good queen, do not resist this urge which you fear. I suggest you find papyrus and quill and do what you will!âÂ
The king overheard. In rage and terrible spittle, he ordered the peasant woman to the dungeon. But the queenâs servants freed the peasant woman under cover of night. She was put in a carriage and pretty horses galloped her home safe. This is not the end of our story.Â
Years later, birds brought news that the queen lost her head for daring to scribe. And the peasant woman cried, but then she laughed. For she knew the queen had roamed in her own way, with her own magic. No one could have guessed what happened next. Â
Women across the land heard tell of their beloved queenâs courage and took it to heart. They roamed for themselves, and Creation dawned good and wild once again.Â
How does it end for our peasant woman? With countless labyrinths, long white hair, and villagers treating her as they would a beloved mother. Her life turned out to be all she could have wished. It was nothing she expected, and every love she did not resist.Â
Heaven on earth comes like this.
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Eleven Blackbirds with Beady Eyes, a fairy tale for enlightenment
A strange fog thickens the forest around our croneâs cottage. Come away from the window, for no breath of wind disturbs our hearthâs fireâit burns bright and safe. Think not of approaching spirits or their awful whispers. If strange worlds bring you fear, the crone has a tale to hint of your fate. Listen quick, for the hour is late!
FIND WHAT MEANING YOU WILL.Â
ELEVEN BLACKBIRDS RESTED UPON A TREE BRANCH FLOATING IN A DARK LAKE.Â
They could see other birds swimming deep in the water around them but were each afraid themselves to give it a try. What a dark world it was! And it rippled besides.
A crone bird with wizened eyes arrived to sit upon the branch alongside the blackbirds.
âMay I tip you over?â the crone bird asked.
She asked so gently and with such compassionâotherwise the eleven blackbirds would have paid her no mind. As it was, each blackbird considered her offer. And yet, there came an awkward silence.
The crone bird could see how anxious the blackbirds were. She explained how it would go. âAt first you will be frightened,â she admitted. âBut then you will be amazed.â Â
One by one, each blackbird closed her beady eyes and nodded her permission to be tipped over. One by one, each felt the sudden push of the crone birdâs wing. And it felt like falling.
Eleven blackbirds flapped their wings in terror. When they opened wide their eyes, they did not understand. Their confusion felt like fear. Gone was the dark water of the lake. There were hills and trees. Not only that. Their wings rippled not with water, but with wind!
How amazed they were at this new earth and heaven.
Where they had already and always been. Â
Eleven blackbirds had never rested upon a floating branch, do you see? All along they had sat upon a living tree branch in the sky, looking down upon a lake. There they saw a mirror image of themselves, distorted by the rippling of dark water. And they believed what they did see. I hope you understand. There were never swimming birds, merely the reflection of flying ones. Â
But you can see how it was an easy mistake to make. Â
That is the end of our story of blackbirds. Only us people here! Have a crumpet and a sip of warm milk, for then itâs off to bed you go.
Unless, of course, you are ready for a new story…
At first you will be frightened. Then you will be amazed. This story begins with a question. Please notice how gently and with such compassion I ask for your permission:
May I tip you over?
Depending on how deep you want to go down this rabbit hole:Â Is the world even what you think it is? Could it be more than it appears?
And what of you…
May I tip you over? I hope you subscribe to CRONE TALES.Â
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The Daughter with Fluttering Wings, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Black clouds gather across a sky most foreboding. A great storm comes to turn our forest lake to ice, and a long winter is surely at hand. But there are ways to pass these dark days. We have chimney and wood and fig pudding to eat! Not only that. The crone is ready to tell her tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.Â
A woodcutterâs daughter whose hair would grow no longer than the tip of her chin heard every whisper of those who pitied her ugliness. One morning she tied broomstraw onto the ends of her hair and pranced out to the village market very happy, for she thought herself to be–at last!–beautiful. As girls surely must be if they are to be loved.
The woodcutter was fetched. He chased away the laughing children and carried his daughter home in his arms. This is how she came to wish only to be hidden away, for how could her stupid belief in her own beauty ever be forgotten by anyone?
She could not forget. Thus, her father often found his daughter in bed with a bewitched stomach. He explained to her gently that little brown birds nested in her stomach and flapped their wings. She thought this to be just one more strange thing about herself and felt shame.
She wished to be free of little flapping birds whether or not they were cute. She long held open her mouth so they might fly away, and when they did not, she checked her chamber pot for feathers. There were none.
One day the father, who loved her and could no longer deny her wish to be hidden away, told her this: âI’ve found a cottage deep in the woods where you can go to live, for beautiful tree branches may tempt the birds to leave your stomach.â
This was how the woodcutterâs daughter came to live in a dark leafy forest. The father visited often and brought her ruby-red cake to eat. “Have the trees taken away your little brown birds?” he would always ask.
“No, father.”
Alas, a great winter turned the world to glass. The father slipped and broke his neck and never came again. “At least my father no longer needs to be ashamed of me and what I did,” the daughter said. Yet that day her fear became so great that she was very sick to her stomach. It was no surprise when she coughed up pieces of birds.
“Disgusting,” the woodcutter’s daughter said, wiping her mouth. She held her belly. “The little brown birds are not all gone. I feel them fluttering still.” She took to eating spoiled food to help her get rid of the birds, but no matter how many pieces came up, she remained full of fluttering fear.
Meanwhile she tried new ways of styling her hair. One rainy afternoon, she fashioned tendrils out of blackberry brambles and piled them atop her head, tying them with the ribbings of leaves. Next she dusted off a brass-ringed mirror and hung it on the wall. Cutting her finger, she drew a face upon the glass with blood. âMirror, oh mirror, what do you think of me?â she asked.
The mirror spoke with lips dripping red. âYou’re the ugliest I’ve ever seen. What on earth have you done now?” And the mirror laughed at her.
The woodcutterâs daughter tore free the brambles and ribbings from her hair. âI am stupid and ugly and right to stay hidden away,â she told the mirror, who agreed this was as safe as it gets.
The winter howled with wolves and winds. The woodcutterâs daughter began to starve and freeze. And so, she took axe to cottage chairs and filled the hearth. The spindles she saved to chew. As she swallowed her first mouthful of splinters, a knock came upon the door.
A crone entered the cottage without invitation.
âItâs freezing out there,â the crone exclaimed. “Storm coming.” She looked about the cottage to see chairs broken into firewood and a spindle hanging from the woodcutterâs daughterâs mouth. The croneâs gaze stopped upon the mirror with its bloody face. âOh, no, not another one,â the crone mumbled.
The woodcutterâs daughter clutched her stomach. âI pray you are not here to take me back to where people are. For I don’t wish to remind anyone of the fool I’ve made of myself trying to be beautiful. As if! I hate myself, truly, I do.”
The crone made no comment on these laments but had a look around the cottage. She smothered sighs over the state of things she saw. Finally she said, “Have you heard the tale of the wooden puppet with an ever-growing nose? It’s what comes of loyalty to lies. And you tell the biggest one of all.”
“I do not lie.” The woodcutter’s daughter patted her nose, to make sure.
“Yes, you do. Can’t you feel it deep down in your belly?”
“No, those are little brown birds. My father explained. They flutter most awfully.”
The crone pulled beans and withered onions from her pockets. The woodcutter’s daughter clapped in delight, and together they cooked up a stew. Wind moaned in the chimney and an icy rain pricked at the windows while they ate in hungry silence.
“You love yourself so very, very much,” the crone declared quite casually upon finishing her meal. She got up to tend to the hearth.
“I do not. I hate myself.”
“Is that true? If you did, you wouldn’t work so hard to protect yourself from the unkindness of others.”
Opening her mouth to argue, the woodcutterâs daughter instead blinked in surprise. âOh my. I do devote myself to being safe from cruel words. In fact, I’ve done everything I know to do to keep myself safe, to keep myself from feeling bad.” Tears streamed down her face. âIs it true I love myself? It’s just that I was so certain that I hate myself. I can’t believe this!â
âTruth is not bothered by what you believe or not,â the crone said, stirring the fire. “Also, I see that you are very brave. You bear your fear of what people think of you everyday, don’t you, sweet girl?”
“Well, yes. I suppose I do. Is that really brave?”
âFoolish old witch,â spat the mirror at the crone. âYou don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re as stupid and ugly as this girl.”
The crone pointed a finger over her shoulder at the mirror. There was a horrible squeak, and a long nose did grow from its glassy face like a beak.
The woodcutterâs daughter burst into laughter at this sight. This did the trick much better than spoiled food. With her mouth open wide, sixty-and-six little brown birds crawled out of her throat and took flight from her tongue. How astonished the daughter was to see long and pointed Pinocchio noses on each bird.
“Mommy!” the birds cried out and flew at the mirror, breaking it.
The woodcutter’s daughter was so relieved that she laughed all the more, until pointy-nosed birds filled the cottage so full that the woodcutterâs daughter was pushed clean out the door.
Our heroine went out into the world. And why not? She was already and always bearing her fear, an incredible feat. Besides, now she knew the truth that she loved herself. This made all the difference she would ever need. This is how she lived happily ever after, for there is no other way to do it.
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The Seaweed on the Pillow, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Darkness falls and strange winds do blow. Women, come inside quick, for woodland creatures do roam and play tricks. Sit at the table and share a fish soup. Itâs time for the crone to tell her tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.Â
There once was a tiny sea encroached by a tall green forest filled with bears. A widowed mother lived on the east shore and her grown son on the west. The mother suffered, believing her sonâs life was not what it could be.
âYou must travel through the forest come winter when bears sleep,â she declared one evening at meal. âThere you will find a village and a wife.â She wrung her hands. âIf only youâd learned to play the psaltery! Women love men who make music. And why did you never apprentice with the blacksmith?”
The evening continued in this fashion, with the mother citing what the son must do for a goodly life. The son, meanwhile, took to staring at his plate.
âAh, you are beginning to understand how hard this life is, filled with trials,â the mother said, seeing his grim face. âDo not worry, for I know what you need to do. Go home now and sleep well.â
But come daybreak, a great stone wall divided the tiny sea with the mother on the east shore and the son on the west. As it was summer and bears did roam, it was too dangerous to pass through the forest, so they had no way to visit one another. The seawall reached to the sky and could not be climbed.Â
The mother did panic. She got in her boat and rowed to the seawall, where waves splashed most fierce. âHello?â she called out.
âMother, where did this seawall come from?â her son answered. For he also had gotten into his boat to see what the seawall was about.
âI told you this world is filled with trial!â she cried out. As if to prove her right, a great tempest arose, and they each rowed with haste back to their shores.
Spring and summer passed with mother and son unable to lay eyes upon one another. For though they used hammer and chisel and unsavory words, the stones of the seawall would not be brought down.
One afternoon the mother looked out her cottage window and received a shock. For a crone did walk upon the sea as would a witch or goddess. Her staff dipped at least six barleycorns into its depths, yet her feet did not sink the least bit.
The mother called greeting. âHave you come to take down the seawall? My son is on the other side all alone. He has no wife or good skills. What will become of him? I have failed him!â And with this, the mother wept sore.
The crone walked upon water to shore and straight past the mother into the cottage. There she poked around in the kitchen, rattling pots and looking inside. âI can help you, but you wonât like it,â she said.Â
âI will do anything for my son!â
Finding a potato in a sack, the crone took a goodly bite. âVery well. Tomorrow we will discover the secret of the seawall. We must see what is it good for.â Â
That very night the crone gathered seaweed to use as thread and sewed the motherâs mouth shut while she slept. Come morning, the crone did not make confession, but patted the motherâs back over this latest misfortune.
âI will row for you today,â the crone offered.
At the seawall, the son called to his mother. When she never answered, he did speak free and honest, believing himself to be alone. And the mother with her lips sewn shut with seaweed could do nothing but listen. Â Â Â
That night the mother cried herself to sleep over what she did hear her son say. Come morning she woke to find the crone gone, seaweed on her pillow, and the seawall vanished. With joy she ran to her boat. Mother and son met in the middle of the tiny sea where the wall had once been.
âHow did you take down the wall?â he asked, in wonder as he pulled her into his boat and hugged her close.
âI built the seawall, and I took it down. That is all you need to know.â She took his face between her hands and was sore glad to lay her eyes upon him true. No longer did she desire to conjure a vision of him in her mind, as witches might do. She was delighted to see him exactly as he was.
Another wonder happened as they shared fish soup that very night. The son knowingly spoke most free and honest to his mother. And when she listened with closed lips and a smile, he did sprout the most beautiful wings.
Heaven on earth is like this.
This particular Crone Tale is inspired by my own suffering when I’ve believed that one or another of my sons is missing out somehow in life, or doesn’t have the life that he could. And yet, when I let go of my mother-identity and slip into that expansive acknowledgment that something very big and mysterious is happening here, it occurs to me that Life is looking after my sons according to the intentions of their own souls–not mine, for heaven’s sake! I’m not omniscient. I can’t know what is best for my sons. I can’t know what serves their souls. Â
Author Byron Katie says to stay in your own business. It’s the kindest thing to do–for ourselves and for others. It’s best to get out of the way of Life as much as possible, yes? What a relief to know Life is wise when we are not.Â
