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The Soul in Bottles and Bread, a fairy tale for enlightenment
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
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The Wedding Cake Beneath the Bridge, a fairy tale for enlightenment
Thunder lulls you to sleep but now is the time for waking. Coffee is brewed. Snuggle beneath the sheepskin blanket and listen to the rain trickle down the window panes. It’s time for the crone to tell a tiny tale, so open your mind and heart and find what meaning you will.
A storm overtook an anxious maiden traveling a lonely road.
Sliding in mud down a hill, she found her way beneath a bridge, taking care not to fall into the swift river. Anxiety overcame her. She held her belly and began to moan.
Beside her came a sneeze.
There sat an old woman much concealed by her cloak. She held a plate with a cake. “I baked it for a wedding,” the crone rasped, “but this storm came along and so the cake is ours. Take a piece.”
The maiden nibbled at the sodden cake as thunder crashed. After a time, she said, “I expected to have the taste of poison on my tongue this night, not the taste of cake.” She reached into a pocket and brought forth a small bottle. “Herein lies escape from this cruel world.”
“I see nothing wrong here,” the crone said, squeezing rain from her tunic. “What need have you of poison?”
“Can you not guess? I do not know the man who gave me this child and left me in shame.” The maiden gazed at her swollen belly. “I am scorned. Never will I taste my own wedding cake. I am so frightened of being alone I cannot bear it any longer.”
The crone smacked her lips noisily. “I am glad for your company. You eat wedding cake as we speak. You are safe beneath this bridge. It appears as if you have no need of poison after all. How grateful this makes me!”
The maiden glared at the crone, uncorked her tiny bottle of poison and swirled its contents. “I take shelter from storms beneath a bridge with a madwoman,” she muttered. With her next bite of cake, her memory vanished. The maiden held a hand to her heart and wept with abandon for three hours. At last she was empty of pain. Her tears ceased, and she looked about herself in wonder.
“Hello,” the maiden greeted upon sight of the crone. “I have no idea why I was crying, how strange. I’m fine now.” She noticed the piece of cake in her hands and took a bite. She smiled with pleasure. “This cake tastes delicious, and I am glad to be here with you out of the rain. But who am I? I do not know.”
“That is good.” The crone leaned forward with kind eyes. “I am happy to meet you as you truly are, at last.”
Heaven on earth is like this.
The next time a painful memory arises, play a game of pretend.
Imagine a magic wand is waved and you have complete amnesia. Then, look around you. How okay are you, right here and now, in this moment?
It may be that though you see you are safe and sound, sensations of anxiety or sadness or anger stay put somewhere in your body. Notice those feelings while having ‘amnesia.’ By that I mean feel what you are feeling, without turning away, AND WITHOUT ANALYSIS OR STORYTELLING ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED.
So much of our suffering comes from denial or repression of things we didn’t want to feel at some place and time. They will continue to come up so that they can pass away, because the nature of things is to pass. But when we tell stories, we tend to distort reality and either go into denial or indulgence. That often looks like anxiety, depression, or even lashing out in anger. It can look like thoughts of suicide.
Try letting your feelings move however they wish without mental commentary or reactivity.
It may be that what you find is that you really are okay here and now. It’s wonderful to trust that our feelings know how to move without our help. It’s a matter of allowing. No denial. No repression. No storytelling. No interference or distortion.
Let your feelings move, let them pass. This way you stay present instead of imagining yourself into the past, which is no longer real. The feelings are here now, but the story of the past is not. This doesn’t mean the past doesn’t matter or that you shouldn’t learn from it. It just means the past has no power over you here and now. The emotions that wish to move and pass are the last remnants of a painful moment in the past.
This is important. Who are you—not in the past, but right here and now? The you of yesterday is past, like the feelings you let go of at last.
This is being reborn.
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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.
