• CRONE TALES

    THE FALLING FULL MOON, a fairy tale for enlightenment

    November 4, 2020 /

    Anxious villagers pray to be delivered unto the next world. Enamored of spirits, angels, and misty places, they hide away their earthly stories and cover their faces. Meanwhile the Crone sits in the sun and brushes her hair—at the market cross, of all places. She has in mind the tale of a tiny beast. Come. Listen. 

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

     

     

    Whilst wishing to be a spirit, a parish woman earned her keep caretaking an aged priest and a church.

    She preferred staying hidden to being seen, and could often be found with her knees upon the stone floor, praying. This helped her to be left alone by a steady stream of parishioners. Though her days were reasonably easy and she feared in no way for her safety—

    This woman could not find her way to peace. She’d be the first to admit it was inexplicable, yet she could rightly be called a nervous Nellie. She was always and ever-anxious.

    There were so many things which wanted to be done, if only she didn’t possess the uncharitable desire to be left to herself with nothing to do. This is how she came to be jealous of spirits and ghosts. How easy and unexamined their lives must be!

    One dark day as she peered out the parish church window at a flood of rain, she saw a figure in a white cloak coming up the rutted, muddy road. The parish woman felt the familiar flutter in her belly when she realized someone was about to need something of her.

    Wind and water blew inside the church when the white-cloaked figure opened the door to step inside. The hood pulled back to reveal a dark oval face framed on one side by braided hair the color of quill’s ink.

    Putting a smile on her face, the parish woman bowed her head in silent greeting to the stranger she would rather had not arrived.

    The woman in a white cloak gazed at the parish woman as if to take her measure. She used a third eye, so this did not take long.

    “You think life is a string of tasks to be done,” the stranger in a white cloak said. “But it has never been so.”

    The parish woman trembled inside. She silently wished to be small and unseen, to not have to deal with this—or anything. “Who are you?” she asked. “How is the hem of your white cloak clean of mud?”

    The woman in a white cloak ignored these questions and instead gave her attention to the unspoken wish of the parish woman. “Your wish shall be granted,” she said. “With a prophecy of what is to come, a riddle, to live out and solve.”

    There came the sound of acorns falling, and the flutter of a single crow’s wing. The woman in a white cloak spoke an instructive riddle:

      

    Come back to your senses.

    When you do, ask the right question for you.

    Last, catch a falling full moon.

     

    When the parish woman woke the next morning, she found herself buried in the thin blanket of her bed—with whiskers, round ears, and scrabbling feet.

    The aged priest was confounded to see the parish woman had been changed into a mouse. He frowned, displeased. “How can you dust the altar? How will you tote potatoes from the garden? How shall you make tea?”

    She stared back at him with beady eyes. She was not upset. On the contrary, she felt delighted and freed.

    No one could want a thing from her. What could one expect a mouse to do for them? Why, nothing at all.

    After this she spent her days scurrying between parish church walls or past the swishing robes of the Others, as she came to think of them. Being a mouse was not unlike being a spirit or a ghost. Rarely was she noticed or seen.  

    Life for the parish mouse became a life lived with ease. The reason for this is because there was nothing which had to be done, and no one she could possibly please.

    There was no way whatsoever for shame to visit her.

    There was nothing wrong with her anymore.

    She lay down for a long, long sleep—profoundly relieved.

    When she woke, her mousy nose twitched at the scent of adventure which inevitably hung on the air. Off she went to the to the village market.  

    There were tasty morsels of dropped cheese for her to find, not to mention spilled mead,     or even wine. Smelly cheese melted on her tiny tongue—such ecstasy!

    She eavesdropped. Her round ears heard bawdy  tales, whispered sweet nothings, and excited gibberish about things that might happen or be done.

    She felt the touch of wind on her fur and gritty dirt beneath her scrabbling claws. An opportunity presented itself to get naughty. She rolled herself in the soft silk of a merchant’s fallen wares, without apology.

    Life as a tiny beast was an astonishingly SENSUAL affair.

    One day as she lay relaxed in the warm sun by the market cross, she longed to do and make things beyond the wherewithal of a quiet, unseen mouse.

    And so, she asked the right question.

    “Is it possible I never knew my soul is in mad love with this world?”

    The answer came. Every last one of her senses answered true.

    At that very moment, the swish of a white cloak with no stains upon its hem passed by. The parish mouse watched a hand reach into a purse. What she saw next appeared to be a falling full moon.

    She fetched the moon out of the mud and rolled it home.

    With no fanfare whatsoever, she woke the next morning in her bed as the woman she once was. Wisdom in the form of a pearl was clutched within her human hand.

    She was no longer a mouse. Still, she retained her beastly senses. Her belly fluttered with nerves. And yet…

    The flutter was only one of the many, many things she was given to notice. Not only that. She had many delicious ways to notice them.

    The parish woman dusted the altar and did not fail to have eyes to see tiny worlds spinning in a shaft of sunlight. In the garden, she smelled the pungent richness of the earth when she went to dig up potatoes. By midday she was enjoying them with creamy, fresh-churned butter upon her tongue.

    She made tea for the aged priest. He wondered over how slowly she poured the kettle’s hot water, at how she leaned in to feel the steamy heat upon her face. She looked so content he later tried the technique for himself.

    By evening the parish woman relaxed by the window to the pitter-patter of rain.

    This is how her fear was made insignificant. Small. Just a ghost of a thing, leashed.

    Whereas her soul in the world was like unto a roaming, purring beast.

    Yours is the same. If ever you feel overwhelmed and wish to be like a ghost, left alone and unseen—

    Come back to your senses.

    When you do, ask the right question for you.

    Last, catch a falling full moon.

     

    The soul experiences life as a sensual wonderland, without taking seriously what can never eternally matter. The reality is that the world goes on spinning for soft animal bodies. I offer Mary Oliver’s beloved poem as evidence:

     

    WILD GEESE

    You do not have to be good.
    You do not have to walk on your knees
    for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
    You only have to let the soft animal of your body
    love what it loves.
    Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
    Meanwhile the world goes on.
    Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
    are moving across the landscapes,
    over the prairies and the deep trees,
    the mountains and the rivers.
    Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
    are heading home again.
    Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
    the world offers itself to your imagination,
    calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
    over and over announcing your place
    in the family of things.

     

    The Crone says it this way:

    “You only have to let the soul love what it loves.”

     

    Hello! Cricket here 🙂 I write a new crone’s tale once or twice a month to share. If you found meaning in this tiny, beastly tale, please know you may SUBSCRIBE.

    I love to get feedback on these stories–please leave a comment below! 

     

     

    Comments
  • 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

     

    Comments
  • 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

    Comments