• CRONE TALES

    The Daughter with Fluttering Wings, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    February 5, 2020 /

    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. 

    A woodcutter’s 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: “I’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.”  

    This was how the woodcutter’s 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. “Mirror, oh mirror, what do you think of me?” she asked.

    The mirror spoke with lips dripping red. “You’re the ugliest I’ve ever seen. What on earth have you done now?” And the mirror laughed at her.

    The woodcutter’s daughter tore free the brambles and ribbings from her hair. “I am stupid and ugly and right to stay hidden away,” she told the mirror, who agreed this was as safe as it gets.

    The winter howled with wolves and winds. The woodcutter’s 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.

    “It’s freezing out there,” the crone exclaimed. “Storm coming.” She looked about the cottage to see chairs broken into firewood and a spindle hanging from the woodcutter’s daughter’s mouth. The crone’s gaze stopped upon the mirror with its bloody face. “Oh, no, not another one,” the crone mumbled.

    The woodcutter’s daughter clutched her stomach. “I 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 woodcutter’s daughter instead blinked in surprise. “Oh 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. “Is it true I love myself? It’s just that I was so certain that I hate myself. I can’t believe this!”

    “Truth is not bothered by what you believe or not,” 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?”

    “Foolish old witch,” spat the mirror at the crone. “You 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 woodcutter’s 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 woodcutter’s 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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  • CRONE TALES

    The Seaweed on the Pillow, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    January 22, 2020 /

    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. It’s time for the crone to tell her tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will. 

    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 son’s life was not what it could be.

    “You must travel through the forest come winter when bears sleep,” she declared one evening at meal. “There you will find a village and a wife.” She wrung her hands. “If only you’d 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.

    “Ah, you are beginning to understand how hard this life is, filled with trials,” the mother said, seeing his grim face. “Do not worry, for I know what you need to do. Go home now and sleep well.”

    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. 

    The mother did panic. She got in her boat and rowed to the seawall, where waves splashed most fierce. “Hello?” she called out.

    “Mother, where did this seawall come from?” her son answered. For he also had gotten into his boat to see what the seawall was about.

    “I told you this world is filled with trial!” 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. “Have 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!” 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. “I can help you, but you won’t like it,” she said. 

    “I will do anything for my son!”

    Finding a potato in a sack, the crone took a goodly bite. “Very well. Tomorrow we will discover the secret of the seawall. We must see what is it good for.”  

    That very night the crone gathered seaweed to use as thread and sewed the mother’s mouth shut while she slept. Come morning, the crone did not make confession, but patted the mother’s back over this latest misfortune.

    “I will row for you today,” 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.    

    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.

    “How did you take down the wall?” he asked, in wonder as he pulled her into his boat and hugged her close.

    “I built the seawall, and I took it down. That is all you need to know.” 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.  

    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. 

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  • CRONE TALES

    The New Bride Who Was Frightened, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    January 8, 2020 /

    The men are away from home to fight a holy war, a thing which exists not. The women wait and hope and gather together to bake flat cakes on hot hearthstones. Tonight there shall be meat pie! Yet more is needed for hearts so in fear. Come, gather round the crone. She is ready to tell her tiny tale, so open you mind and heart and find what meaning you will.

     

     

    Nuns found a new bride weeping outside their abbey.

    They brought her to the prioress, who was busy whispering spells in the cloister round a garden of trees laden with plum, quince, and bitter orange.

    “She is scorned and thrown away,” the nuns explained. “We must needs pray to St. Wilgefortis, our patron who cares for women with bad husbands!”

    The prioress was familiar with such a need. For men in these dark days did blame women for any matter of evil, imagined or not. She nodded and sent the nuns to contemplate in the nave whatever they wished, and eyed the new bride. “Why do you weep?” she inquired.

    “I am so frightened,” the new bride answered in trembling voice. “My husband accused me of despoiling tombs so that a throng did try to stone me. This morn he returned me to my childhood home. My father cursed me, saying the truth must be I made a cuckold of my husband. I am all alone in the world, a terrible place! What good can come to me now?”

    “I wonder indeed. Walk with me.”

    The new bride sobbed as she strolled beneath beautiful stone arches swaying atop columns of thorned roses.  “Oh, what good can come to me now?” she wailed over and again. After a time, she became hungry and noticed within the garden the many fruit trees. “Are those plums?” she asked, sniffling. She wondered had the nuns baked on this day a fine plum pie.

    “Not yet ripe. But wait.” The prioress waved her hand, and the fruit grew plump and heavy. “There now. My daughter, did you notice where on the trees the fruit grows?”

    “All over,” the new bride said as she plucked a plum and bit deep. Juice dribbled down her chin.  

    The prioress moved to stand beside a tree, her wimple grazing its leaves. She gazed at the plums with serious face. “Nay. Fruit does not grow on the wide trunk of the tree, nor even where the tree divides into thick branches. Do you see? The fruit is found hanging on thin limbs. Why do you suppose this is?”

    “I do not know, Prioress.”

    “You speak a good answer,” the prioress praised. “For we do not understand why things are as they are, but surely, fruit loves to grow where the tree is most fragile.”

    With this, the prioress lifted the new bride’s chin with an age-spotted finger. “And so shall you bear fruit where you are most fragile. Have faith and do not despair. Be bright and alert. For good can come to you most especially now.”

     

    This is a citrusy take on the saying, “It’s darkest before the dawn.”

    For whatever reason, it’s true that when we’re broken, the light gets in so much easier. Remember that even when you’re afraid of the dark, your soul is not. So, be bright and alert and brave when you experience a dark night, for that is when your soul most often bears fruit in this world.

    And that is EXACTLY how heaven comes to earth.

     

     

     

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  • CRONE TALES

    The Spirit of Christmas Eve, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    December 22, 2019 /

    Silver bells ring eerie on this cold Christmas Eve. Come inside, for ghosts of long ago roam and bring warning with fright. ‘Tis better to gather round the crone as she tells her Christmas story—the year is short, so open your hearts and minds and find meaning, lest a fearsome spirit visit you this night!  

     

     

    A Yeoman’s Daughter hatched a plan one dark Christmas Eve.

    For she did love the manor lord’s son, but he would be forced to marry on Christmas Day the daughter of a most noble knight. Our Yeoman’s Daughter’s love was thwarted as she was deemed less suitable for such a match. 

    She could not bear to watch her beloved marry another. 

    Thus, she knelt in church before the priest to give confession. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. For when I found in the stables the Knight’s Daughter in fornication with a peasant man of handsome face, I agreed to lie for her. It weighs on me most heavy.”

    The priest, a favored adviser to the manor lord, gasped. “The temptress!” he said. Laying a hand on the head of the Yeoman’s Daughter, he forgave and in haste blessed her. Our Yeoman’s Daughter gathered shawl about her shoulders and watched as the priest hurried down the cobbled road to whisper in the manor lord’s ear. 

    A snow began to fall, and she stood motionless on this beautiful and holy night, frightened by what she had done. Yet what choice did she have? She could have no life without a husband. 

    A great wind blew of a sudden, banging church shutters. The gentle snow turned quick into a fearsome blizzard. With a cry, our Yeoman’s Daughter did shield her face with a bent arm. She called for help, for all the world had vanished in a swirl of driving snow and black shadows. How cold it was! The air was like frozen water in her lungs, and she squatted there in the church yard, reaching up her arms for help.

    Alas, no one came to her. She heard the townspeople talking gaily to one another of eel pie and fruit pottage, and singing their Christmas songs as if no blizzard had set upon the town.

    “Help me, please!” she shrieked. Terror seized her heart that she might be lost in the icy maelstrom, for tales of such were known to turn tragic. Her thin shawl and worn tunic could not withstand such cold. Standing, she stumbled this direction and that, but she could see no one, not the church, nor anything at all, until—

    A hooded and looming figure appeared dark against the swirling snow. This frightened our Yeoman’s Daughter, who supposed Death had come to stalk her. She bolted and screamed for God to help her, but fell to crack her skull upon the frozen road. Whimpering, she peered up through frozen eyelashes to behold a glowing lantern hanging from the voluminous sleeve of the hooded figure.

    “Surely, Death carries no lantern,” she cried in hope. Wavering to her knees, she clutched at heavy robes. “You must be sent by God to save me! Tell me your name, that I might give thanks for you.”

    No answer came, and our Yeoman’s Daughter could not see within the dark hood. She trembled. This was all wrong. “Will you not speak to me?” she begged. No answer came. “Very well! At least do God’s bidding and save me!”

    No sooner had the words passed her lips than the lantern glowed bright to turn the night to day, chasing away the blizzard. Before our Yeoman’s Daughter’s eyes a hearth appeared, with the Knight’s Daughter holding a small child in her arms as her husband, the manor lord’s son, stoked a merry fire.

    The hooded figure spoke at last. “Never to come, never to come.” 

    The lantern flashed even brighter than before, and a new scene did appear out of the blizzard. The Knight’s Daughter stood before a gilded mirror, arranging cloth to hide a bruised face. She wept, asking her maid why the manor lord’s son no longer wished her to bear his children, and why her father had beaten her for what she had never done. 

    “Oh,” said our Yeoman’s Daughter and tried to turn away. “I…I do not wish to see her. Please. I cannot.”

    But the hooded figure reached out and grabbed fast to our Yeoman’s Daughter, and to the Knight’s Daughter as well, reaching across time. The two women stood face to face and a curious thing did happen. They could not look away. In a time between a thousand Christmases and its Eve, they gazed into one another’s eyes. And it was as if looking into a mirror, for the two souls were one. What happened to one happened to the other. What one did the other had done. This they had never known. 

    “We are the same!” they said, both nearly fainting in surprise. 

    The hooded figure pushed back her hood and raised her lantern. It grew its brightest yet. A new vision did appear: a tree, heavy with ripe fruit in a garden where women did rightly dwell, no matter the stories of ancient men. Our Yeoman’s Daughter took the hand of the Knight’s Daughter. Alongside the Spirit of Eve on this and all nights before Christmas, they ate the sweetest apples, for nothing was forbidden. 

     

     

     

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