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The Ghost of Cottage Past, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Wind rushes leaves upon the cobbled doorstep, and woodsmoke swirls behind the grate. The crone leans forward in her chair. It’s time for a tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.
A ghost bound to the cottage in which she’d lived began her chores. Each morning required a hot kettle and baked bread. By the time sunshine fell upon her clouded windows, she’d be busy miming quarrels with a friend. The day ended with prayers for what she could not receive.
Her fate was to replay her life of the past, as is the case with all ghosts. How could she complain? At least the danger of wild goats was no longer real. Nothing was real. She only pretended to touch anything.
One evening unlike the rest, the sound of footsteps approached the cottage door. The ghost turned her head. There came a knock.
“Who’s there?” a voice called.
The ghost parted her lips to answer, but of course she could not. Her fate was to replay the past, and she’d never answered this question before. Not really. And so she hid in the flue waiting for the cruel voice to leave. At last it did.
Until the next evening. And the next. The ghost fretted over this state of affairs. Only what happened in the past should be happening now, she reasoned good and right. Until her eyes opened wide. There could be only one solution to this mystery. She wasn’t what she thought she was! At once, she began to clean her windows.
Knock! Knock!
“Who’s there?” the persistent voice asked yet again.
“I am,” she answered. There was no need to explain more, do you understand? She was dead to the past. The door opened and she touched the world.
Heaven on earth is like this.
This story is about the past. Are you bound by it? Does it replay itself in your life here and now? Social anxiety and loneliness are formed in such ways. Sometimes we believe in the power of WHAT ONCE HAPPENED TO ME so passionately that we end up unable to feel alive here and now. We can feel dead.
Notice that in the crone’s story, the ‘ghost’ doesn’t open the door. It’s opened for her. Her part was to let go of the past. Simply being as she was with no explanation–the door automatically opened.
Look and see who you really are, right now. There’s no need to believe anything about yourself. As author Byron Katie would say, “Who are you without your story?”
Without a story, you’re free. Free to go where you please, free to touch the world.
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The Fishing Witch Who Drowned, a fairy tale for enlightenment
A gale is swift upon the ship and treasure is our destiny. Climb belowdecks and join the reveling crew. It’s time for the crone to tell her tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.
A witch who lived in a starving village caught fire most every day. If ever she cast her eyes upon a passing villager, they tied her to a tree and held a flame to the hem of her cloak. The cloak burned but her body did not. In shame she would escape to cry on her bed.
At last they burned her cottage and set her free. Thereafter she walked the shore, practicing her craft on the fish of the sea and filling out her bones. Her spells and love of seagulls kept her warm.
And yet, she longed to be a good witch of good use.
One chill and blustery morn a fish merchant called to her from a safe distance. “Our nets are empty, while you are fat,” he complained. “You steal and poison our fish with your dark magic!”
The witch knew the villagers threw out the fish she left in baskets on their doorsteps. “I do not steal,” she called over her shoulder as she collected shells. “Beneath a full moon I walk into the sea and fish swim into my arms, a gift from Neptune.”
“Filthy witch, you lie!”
“Come and see,” she replied.
A fortnight later the man returned with his friends. They watched as the witch walked into the sea and drowned. Satisfied at the justice of the gods, they returned to their homes with empty bellies.
The witch, disguised as a miracle worker, served the welcoming villagers wine and fish from the next day forward. Storytellers say she drowned that others might live. But it was she who was reborn.
Heaven on earth is like this.
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The Cursed Widow and the Wolves, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Snow heaps at the window, but the quilts are heavy and antique. Snuggle beneath the hand-stitched love. It’s time for the crone to tell her tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.
A widow stirred mushroom broth on her hearth stove and listened to the night. She’d been cursed by a powerful seamstress and awaited her fate. Soon enough, the rotted door to her home crashed open. A pack of wolves entered, shaking bits of wood from their fur into the fire, setting it ablaze.
The broth bubbled and splattered. The widow raged. “How dare you make a mess of my floor!” she screeched.
The wolves sat on their haunches and stared at the widow. She muttered and mopped. “Stupid wolves,” she said. “Don’t you know enough to eat me?” But the wolves only stared. The widow ate her dinner and went to bed.
Days passed in this fashion—the wolves stared and the widow grumbled. She collected many burns and bruises covering her eyes with her hands while she cooked and swept.
Winter turned to spring. The widow couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop it!” she demanded. But still the wolves stared.
“Let’s make a deal,” the widow told the wolves one summer evening. “This has gone on much longer than expected. I’ve decided that we are a family. All I ask is that you never stop staring at me.”
Heaven takes a curse and works like this.
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The Journey for a Daughter, Wine, & Figs, a fairy tale for enlightenment
The hearty stew simmering on the stove isn’t quite ready. Sneak a molasses cookie and come by the fire. There’s time enough for the crone to tell a tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.
A barren woman begged God to give her a child. That night she dreamed of a small boy with her husband’s features playing alongside a river flowing with wine and figs. “I must find this river,” she declared upon waking. “It is there I will be a mother at last!”
Her husband readily agreed to leave their home in search of flowing wine and figs. “Where is this river?” they demanded to know of everyone they met on their journey. People believed the woman and her husband to be mad and offered them bread to eat and tonics to drink.
Years passed.
One chill autumn morning, it all became too much. “I will never have my daughter!” the barren woman wailed. “Why does God abandon me?” With these last words, the pain in her heart was so great she fell stone cold dead.
The husband railed against God as well. “No flowing wine and figs! Why is God so cruel as to make this promise and not keep it?” With these last words, he clutched his chest and fell stone cold dead as well.
After three days the woman woke to cooing doves and a clear sky. “Let us go home,” she told her husband, shaking him awake. “Let things be as they are. Our seeking is ended!” With these last words, she was born again, and her husband as well. They returned to their village where they laughed with friends over what they had done.
Heaven on earth is like this.
