Hopes and dreams are harder to box as you get older. The material gifts that delight us as children no longer hold sway but rather than feel disappointed by unrequited generosity I have decided to accept the gifts that have been given to me this season of a less tangible kind and cherish them for what they are. I hope you have all been equally blessed.
My children recognising for the first time the joy of giving gifts of their own and not just receiving.
The laughter of loved ones
A gathering of friends
The sharing of a new experience
My children holding hands, loving one another.
An unsolicited hug, just because.
Solving a puzzle together.
The aroma of oranges, of pine resin, of cloves and spices.
The waxing and waning of a candle flame.
The freedom to walk in beautiful countryside.
The kiss of the sun on my face and the glow of a full moon.
Time to sit by the fire and enjoy the purr of a cat.
As we move towards a new year and talk turns to resolutions, rather than denying myself some trifling thing I resolve to hold these moments dear, recognise them when they come and accept them for what they are...the glue that helps hold us together in the tougher times, if only we remember them.
Happy Christmas all and a wonder-filled New Year.
Tuesday 29 December 2015
Saturday 19 December 2015
Madame de Voyant
The Seer
" Bonjour ma chere. Ne juge pas jeuness I like my leaves mulled, infused with whisky, you know, helps me find my way in le dark. Maman de le bois is my name, or 'de boire' quand vous preferez!" She chuckled. "Why do you look perplexed? I am friend of wood nymphs, ghouls and fireflies. I commune avec les animaux de bois et des compagne. Should you fear me Evangeline? Le darkness? Non. Your zebedee imaginings are la raison pour votre unease. You are looking for your Prince Charming non? Cherche ma cherie, cherche all of your life and all lanes will lead you here. I know where your frog Prince can be found. Come forward my angel, bring me your gold, your charms. Place your pieces of eight in my China crucible and I will wash you in flames, make your mind spin in dark spaces, remake your memories of days known and unknown. You will dance on firefly wings in glowing moonlight, swim across space and hours waving your limbs like a bug in a web. And yes, you will find him, your Navine. And where will your sardonic brow be ce jour la? Nowhere. You will believe, and you will give me praise.
Evangeline
I used to be so brave. What happened to that bravado, did it evaporate with childhood? I wouldn't boo a goose in these dark times. Maman de le Bois offered me salvation, an escape from the doubt and darkness of cupboards whispering secrets. She called me angel, but I was no angel, I knew that. But sure as night followed the gloaming all maidens deserve happiness in the end don't we? So here I stood in front of this wizened goddess of the woods willing to follow her instruction.
I looked at the strange shaped coin receptacle Maman de le Bois held out to me. It was a tea cup and tea pot melded together, neither one thing nor the other and wondered what strange curse was upon it. I placed a golden feather charm into the china and Maman de le Bois gave me a blessing.
"The peace of the Lord be with us all child. The kindness shown here has been noted in the annals of the world. Let me bathe in the fire of voices and a vision will come." I drank the mulled potion she offered me and let thoughts gallop,loose-reined through wild spaces until I found a vision swimming in its place. It swam over the swamp water dressed in the glow of fireflies, a smell of damp and spice muddling the image. There was no straight answer, no one clear vision but a stream of suggestion; a house with roses round the door, me on my horse with a quart of beer, sleeping under the trees, nectar dripping from them like rain; sprites and fairies tugging at my hair, mermaids splashing among the stars dancing with dashing white Sergeants. I woke on a woven willow bed thatched with swan's feathers and was perplexed.
"Did you see the path Evangeline?"
"I saw something, but I don't what to think, where to start."
"Following one foot in front of another is a good beginning."
"But how will I find the house?"
"It will come forth as it did in the dream." I looked at Mamon de le Bois confused.
"But for that I would need the potion. How else can I summon it?"
"Fear not doubting angel I will be there forever now in the space between les oreilles."
The Seer
"It was a spiced Janvier when ma petite jeuness came to me, seeking her prince, her 'happy ever after'. Yes, she was a hungry centipede, a heart that can never be satisfied. I did for her what any seer is want to do: I took her payment and faced the fire, bathed in the heat of understanding so that she, through me, saw into the unknown to search for her happy ending. It is never enough though for these jeune femme, they want too much. Ha. I used to eat hedgehogs and stinging spinach when I was that age. I used to drink whisky from the spout of a teapot covered in roses and berries. Now I am fortunes mistress, invited out once a year to the office party to have my way with Adam. The poor dear never deserved to be ignored you know, he was quite 'charmant'. No. It is work work work for me, something for every stranger that crosses my path, never is it my time to shine. Who makes my wishes come true? She was satisfied though, ma petite jeuness, after her mix of visions. She may go on now and find peace, convinced she will find her Navine. Maybe I too may find peace in the end.
Notes
This story was written during a writing group. Each section was written in about 10-15minutes and we were tasked with include particular words and feed back from other writers in the group. We also had a letter chosen at random that we were not allowed to use, one for each of the three sections. So, just out of interest, did you notice anything unusual?
Oh, and to all native French speaker, my profound apologies for spelling and grammatical errors, I do not have the priviledge to be fluent in your beautiful language.
Feedback appreciated as always.
" Bonjour ma chere. Ne juge pas jeuness I like my leaves mulled, infused with whisky, you know, helps me find my way in le dark. Maman de le bois is my name, or 'de boire' quand vous preferez!" She chuckled. "Why do you look perplexed? I am friend of wood nymphs, ghouls and fireflies. I commune avec les animaux de bois et des compagne. Should you fear me Evangeline? Le darkness? Non. Your zebedee imaginings are la raison pour votre unease. You are looking for your Prince Charming non? Cherche ma cherie, cherche all of your life and all lanes will lead you here. I know where your frog Prince can be found. Come forward my angel, bring me your gold, your charms. Place your pieces of eight in my China crucible and I will wash you in flames, make your mind spin in dark spaces, remake your memories of days known and unknown. You will dance on firefly wings in glowing moonlight, swim across space and hours waving your limbs like a bug in a web. And yes, you will find him, your Navine. And where will your sardonic brow be ce jour la? Nowhere. You will believe, and you will give me praise.
Evangeline
I used to be so brave. What happened to that bravado, did it evaporate with childhood? I wouldn't boo a goose in these dark times. Maman de le Bois offered me salvation, an escape from the doubt and darkness of cupboards whispering secrets. She called me angel, but I was no angel, I knew that. But sure as night followed the gloaming all maidens deserve happiness in the end don't we? So here I stood in front of this wizened goddess of the woods willing to follow her instruction.
I looked at the strange shaped coin receptacle Maman de le Bois held out to me. It was a tea cup and tea pot melded together, neither one thing nor the other and wondered what strange curse was upon it. I placed a golden feather charm into the china and Maman de le Bois gave me a blessing.
"The peace of the Lord be with us all child. The kindness shown here has been noted in the annals of the world. Let me bathe in the fire of voices and a vision will come." I drank the mulled potion she offered me and let thoughts gallop,loose-reined through wild spaces until I found a vision swimming in its place. It swam over the swamp water dressed in the glow of fireflies, a smell of damp and spice muddling the image. There was no straight answer, no one clear vision but a stream of suggestion; a house with roses round the door, me on my horse with a quart of beer, sleeping under the trees, nectar dripping from them like rain; sprites and fairies tugging at my hair, mermaids splashing among the stars dancing with dashing white Sergeants. I woke on a woven willow bed thatched with swan's feathers and was perplexed.
"Did you see the path Evangeline?"
"I saw something, but I don't what to think, where to start."
"Following one foot in front of another is a good beginning."
"But how will I find the house?"
"It will come forth as it did in the dream." I looked at Mamon de le Bois confused.
"But for that I would need the potion. How else can I summon it?"
"Fear not doubting angel I will be there forever now in the space between les oreilles."
The Seer
"It was a spiced Janvier when ma petite jeuness came to me, seeking her prince, her 'happy ever after'. Yes, she was a hungry centipede, a heart that can never be satisfied. I did for her what any seer is want to do: I took her payment and faced the fire, bathed in the heat of understanding so that she, through me, saw into the unknown to search for her happy ending. It is never enough though for these jeune femme, they want too much. Ha. I used to eat hedgehogs and stinging spinach when I was that age. I used to drink whisky from the spout of a teapot covered in roses and berries. Now I am fortunes mistress, invited out once a year to the office party to have my way with Adam. The poor dear never deserved to be ignored you know, he was quite 'charmant'. No. It is work work work for me, something for every stranger that crosses my path, never is it my time to shine. Who makes my wishes come true? She was satisfied though, ma petite jeuness, after her mix of visions. She may go on now and find peace, convinced she will find her Navine. Maybe I too may find peace in the end.
Notes
This story was written during a writing group. Each section was written in about 10-15minutes and we were tasked with include particular words and feed back from other writers in the group. We also had a letter chosen at random that we were not allowed to use, one for each of the three sections. So, just out of interest, did you notice anything unusual?
Oh, and to all native French speaker, my profound apologies for spelling and grammatical errors, I do not have the priviledge to be fluent in your beautiful language.
Feedback appreciated as always.
Sunday 13 December 2015
Magical Ring
I started out in the landscape's cups and valleys, shrouded in a cloak of morning mystery. The postman had already got well underway, spreading his Santa's bag of parcels and cards. I could see his slow progress, a red bug crawling the meandering contours of the distant hillside. I climbed further up, further into the bowl of the valley, it's arms reaching around both sides of me in an earthen embrace. I left behind the meadow grass glittering with ice crystals waiting to melt in the weak solstice sunrise and let my feet follow the mud path into the woodland.
A melange of broken semi-skeletal leaves were strewn at my feet, dulled from their original autumnal passions but decorated with a tracery of frost. Every so often a crème brûlée crunch would cut the stillness as my foot broke through the iced corrugations of the path sending skittering shards into disarray, a jagged spiders web of ice telling where I had been.
As I progressed further along the path a figure appeared from the camouflage of moss and branches on the track ahead. He was so well camouflaged that he was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wood in this crepuscular light. A trapper's hat was firmly fixed on his head and a worn out waxed long coat was wrapped loosely about him. There was no camera or binoculars about his neck. Normally it was a bird watcher or maybe a farmer if I came across people at that hour.maybe he was a dog walker. I looked at the figure again. He appeared to be leaning forward, slightly hunched, with one hand clutched in a downward claw, as if he had been holding a ball or something, and it had been stolen from him. Instinctively I slowed my pace, scanned the woods for a dog but still could not see one. Everything was still, even the birds had ceased their early chatter. Something made me stop then; a dip in the temperature, a solidity to the air. I looked again at the figure, closer to me now. I thought it odd that he had not moved at all, had not turned to nod or greet me.
"Morning," I tried experimentally. No reaction. Perhaps he was deaf. I didn't want to startle him so moved further forward, away from his peripheral vision. His face was pale and deeply creased, weathered with age, deep set eyes lurked in the shadow of bushy eyebrows and a crooked nose. An expression: surprise and anger, was frozen on his face. I shivered, my teeth chattering, feeling the intense cold penetrating my warm layers of clothing. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until I let it out and a steam of condensation fogged the air in front of me. But this man was not creating breath clouds at all. It hit me with a rush of adrenalin: oh, my God, he's not breathing. I pulled my gloves away from my fingers, holdings the back of my hand up to his mouth and nose and spoke urgently,
"Hello? Sir, are you alright?" No breath, not even a blink. I pulled my hand away and reached for the phone in my pocket, ready to call for help. But what should I say? I didn't know what had happened. I looked about and noticed his clothes shimmering. The coat in particular seemed to glisten, and the waistcoat and scarf beneath. Instead of my phone I found myself reaching out to touch the material. It was stiff with cold. Beyond stiff really, it seemed frozen solid glittering with frost, a suit of lights. The clothes seemed rather old fashioned up close; a linen shirt with no buttons, the waistcoat roughly cut in worn leather. His shoes were simply cut, hand stitched leather and the trousers were split legged, felted wool tethered by a simple belt at the waist.
Jack Frost.
The name came to me from nowhere.
"But that's a fairy tale" I scoffed at myself. "It can't be." And yet there was no sign of injury. The man had not collapsed from a stroke. This figure, standing stock still in the cold dawn, glittering with magic, defied logic. He appeared to be as old as the hills themselves. But surely that was impossible. Even if it was Jack Frost, how had he come to be here, frozen stiff, caught in his own trap?
I could hear the gentle burbling song of the brook still flowing nearby. It seemed unaffected by what ever curse held Jack Frost to account? But as I looked in the direction of the river I saw on the ground a trail of golden grains, yellow sand on top of the mud. My curiosity piqued, I bent to touch the grains and found them to be warm. I followed its morse code line first with my eyes and then with my feet towards the river. It was broken in places, puddled in others, as if someone had been carrying a leaking bag of sand and had paused. At the brook it changed directions going upstream towards the waterfall. I followed it to the head of the valley. Rocks were split asunder here and smoothed by the mysteries of time. A mixology of tumbled trees splintered like broken bones sat in company with raw earth and jagged roots, strings of moss and fern. Some of the boulders were like giant stone marbles lying half submerged in the pool at the foot of the waterfall's curtain. But away from the fierce frothing of the deep plunge pool there were smaller boulders, a way across, a path of stepping stones, and on each there was a hint of golden sand. I crossed the slippery stones with care and carried on up the bank, the wayside littered with emerging flowers of a species I had never seen before.
As I followed the path the flowers seemed to multiply and I was soon surrounded. It seemed in a space of a few metres I had walked from winter to spring and into summer. Surrounded by the heavenly scent I walked further until the trees too came into bloom; the new lace of lime coloured beech leaves curtaining the path. And then I came upon the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia in a shallow dell. She was sitting on a tree stump, a small mirror in her hand, crying rainbow tears quietly into the silk folds of her turquoise kurtah. She looked like a study of a young lady who had learned not to be noticed. I was unsure whether to stay or slip away. Could she even be real? Questions flooded my mind and I found I could not leave without satisfying my curiosity.
"Are you real?" I asked tentatively. She looked up startled, a curtain of loose dark curls framing her burnished almond eyes, wide open, deep as black holes in space.
"For certain I am real. Can you not see me with your own eyes?" She sounded put out.
"Yes I can. But, forgive me, I am not sure I trust them. There has been a lot of magic in the world this morning. Why are you crying?"
"Who are you?" She asked ignoring my question.
"I live here. I- I think I followed your trail to this place. The sand? Maybe it was in your gown. And the flowers. Did you make the flowers grow? We don't usually have many flowers in the winter."
"You ask many questions. Will you tell me your name?"
"Sorry, I'm Emille, my family live just down the valley, all seven of us. I come here to be alone sometimes. What is your name? Where did you come from?"
Seemingly satisfied she wiped her tears and stood to curtsy.
"I am Princess Nasmina, daughter to the Shah of Persia. I am the shortest of my Father's many daughters, the most overlooked. My Father was displeased with me for learning the Jin's Magic. He shouted at me, told me that he would never find me a husband if I continued to be so wilful. I was upset for displeasing him and ran away. But as I ran the Jin's seeing eye fell from my sirwal pocket and smashed at my feet. I was sucked through time and space and transported here.
"A man dressed in a suit of lights found me. He told me he was the King of Winter and would make me his Queen, but he was cold inside and out and I refused to go with him."
"Jack Frost," I said " I'm not sure he is a King exactly but he certainly knows about the cold."
"I could see he was greedy for my magic. He bound my wrists with trailing Ivy and forced me to go with him. He pulled me on until the dawn but then said we must both become invisible and ride the wind. He threw me to the floor and began to chant an ancient rhyme:
'Cold of night make cold the day,
Death upon me if I stay.
From the North winds I shall spy
In the cracks 'tween Earth and sky'
"As he chanted the air around him shimmered and cracked with cold. I was very frightened, but then I remembered the Jin's magic mirror. He had given it to me as a talisman against evil and I knew I must use it to protect myself. As I pulled it free of my sirwal the King of Winter- what did you call him Jack Frost? -He saw that I had something in my hand and went to grab me, but in doing so he looked in the mirror and his own magic rebounded on him. It must have been the ice in his heart that consumed him and he turned into frozen form.
"I ran away as fast as I could. But how can I run when I do not know which way to go? My only hope is to rely on the kindness of strangers."
She began to cry again then and my heart went out to her. I so badly wanted to make her feel less frightened. I had no idea if she knew about the celebration of Christmas but I did. I knew it was a time of goodwill, a time to be with those you love and a time to help those in need.
"Tell, me, is there anything I can do Princess?"
She thought for a moment and then looked at the Hazel switch in my hand.
"Will you make me a gift of that wood?"
"Of course," I said, handing it to her, " but I don't see how that will help."
"You will."
She bent the hazel into a circle, the wood blossoming beneath her hand into a berry wreath in all its bright glory, the two ends knitting together into an eternal loop. She placed the coronet on her head and made a deep curtsy.
"Thank you, Emille. What a beautiful gift you have given."
"But it was just a stick"
"Yes, it was, but the kindness in your thoughts made it blossom into something quite spectacular, wouldn't you agree?" I smiled and returned he curtsy a little awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. "I have nothing to give you in return Emille," she said, "but I can grant you one wish."
A wish! What would you wish for: toys, games, clothes? I thought and thought. I wanted something that would last a life time. I knew that making a difference to someone's life would make me happy far longer than things I would grow out of and finally I realised what I must wish for.
"I've made up my mind Princess. No one should be lost and alone, especially at Christmas. I wish for you to go home to your family."
At that moment the sun's rays broke over the top of the dell flooding the hollow with golden light. I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the glare and saw the air waver around the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia, like a heat haze, and heard her whisper her thanks, before I was forced to look away. A moment later and the dell was filled with warmth but the princess was gone.
Where she had stood by the tree stump lay the berry wreath on the ground. I picked it up and sat on the stump turning my face to the sun. I smiled with the pleasure of knowing my wish had brought a family together again at Christmas and imagined the joy that would be shared at her homecoming.Later, as I walked back through the woods there was no sign of Jack Frost. It seemed he too had been released from the Jin's magic when the princess returned home. I took the wreath with me and placed it on the windowsill at home for all to see.
Many years have passed since that solstice in the woods when I was just a young girl. Now I have a family of my own. The berry wreath sits at the heart of my family table as fresh as the day it was made, a symbol of giving and of the gathering of loved ones, a symbol of rebirth and hope for the year to come.
A melange of broken semi-skeletal leaves were strewn at my feet, dulled from their original autumnal passions but decorated with a tracery of frost. Every so often a crème brûlée crunch would cut the stillness as my foot broke through the iced corrugations of the path sending skittering shards into disarray, a jagged spiders web of ice telling where I had been.
As I progressed further along the path a figure appeared from the camouflage of moss and branches on the track ahead. He was so well camouflaged that he was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wood in this crepuscular light. A trapper's hat was firmly fixed on his head and a worn out waxed long coat was wrapped loosely about him. There was no camera or binoculars about his neck. Normally it was a bird watcher or maybe a farmer if I came across people at that hour.maybe he was a dog walker. I looked at the figure again. He appeared to be leaning forward, slightly hunched, with one hand clutched in a downward claw, as if he had been holding a ball or something, and it had been stolen from him. Instinctively I slowed my pace, scanned the woods for a dog but still could not see one. Everything was still, even the birds had ceased their early chatter. Something made me stop then; a dip in the temperature, a solidity to the air. I looked again at the figure, closer to me now. I thought it odd that he had not moved at all, had not turned to nod or greet me.
"Morning," I tried experimentally. No reaction. Perhaps he was deaf. I didn't want to startle him so moved further forward, away from his peripheral vision. His face was pale and deeply creased, weathered with age, deep set eyes lurked in the shadow of bushy eyebrows and a crooked nose. An expression: surprise and anger, was frozen on his face. I shivered, my teeth chattering, feeling the intense cold penetrating my warm layers of clothing. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath until I let it out and a steam of condensation fogged the air in front of me. But this man was not creating breath clouds at all. It hit me with a rush of adrenalin: oh, my God, he's not breathing. I pulled my gloves away from my fingers, holdings the back of my hand up to his mouth and nose and spoke urgently,
"Hello? Sir, are you alright?" No breath, not even a blink. I pulled my hand away and reached for the phone in my pocket, ready to call for help. But what should I say? I didn't know what had happened. I looked about and noticed his clothes shimmering. The coat in particular seemed to glisten, and the waistcoat and scarf beneath. Instead of my phone I found myself reaching out to touch the material. It was stiff with cold. Beyond stiff really, it seemed frozen solid glittering with frost, a suit of lights. The clothes seemed rather old fashioned up close; a linen shirt with no buttons, the waistcoat roughly cut in worn leather. His shoes were simply cut, hand stitched leather and the trousers were split legged, felted wool tethered by a simple belt at the waist.
Jack Frost.
The name came to me from nowhere.
"But that's a fairy tale" I scoffed at myself. "It can't be." And yet there was no sign of injury. The man had not collapsed from a stroke. This figure, standing stock still in the cold dawn, glittering with magic, defied logic. He appeared to be as old as the hills themselves. But surely that was impossible. Even if it was Jack Frost, how had he come to be here, frozen stiff, caught in his own trap?
I could hear the gentle burbling song of the brook still flowing nearby. It seemed unaffected by what ever curse held Jack Frost to account? But as I looked in the direction of the river I saw on the ground a trail of golden grains, yellow sand on top of the mud. My curiosity piqued, I bent to touch the grains and found them to be warm. I followed its morse code line first with my eyes and then with my feet towards the river. It was broken in places, puddled in others, as if someone had been carrying a leaking bag of sand and had paused. At the brook it changed directions going upstream towards the waterfall. I followed it to the head of the valley. Rocks were split asunder here and smoothed by the mysteries of time. A mixology of tumbled trees splintered like broken bones sat in company with raw earth and jagged roots, strings of moss and fern. Some of the boulders were like giant stone marbles lying half submerged in the pool at the foot of the waterfall's curtain. But away from the fierce frothing of the deep plunge pool there were smaller boulders, a way across, a path of stepping stones, and on each there was a hint of golden sand. I crossed the slippery stones with care and carried on up the bank, the wayside littered with emerging flowers of a species I had never seen before.
As I followed the path the flowers seemed to multiply and I was soon surrounded. It seemed in a space of a few metres I had walked from winter to spring and into summer. Surrounded by the heavenly scent I walked further until the trees too came into bloom; the new lace of lime coloured beech leaves curtaining the path. And then I came upon the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia in a shallow dell. She was sitting on a tree stump, a small mirror in her hand, crying rainbow tears quietly into the silk folds of her turquoise kurtah. She looked like a study of a young lady who had learned not to be noticed. I was unsure whether to stay or slip away. Could she even be real? Questions flooded my mind and I found I could not leave without satisfying my curiosity.
"Are you real?" I asked tentatively. She looked up startled, a curtain of loose dark curls framing her burnished almond eyes, wide open, deep as black holes in space.
"For certain I am real. Can you not see me with your own eyes?" She sounded put out.
"Yes I can. But, forgive me, I am not sure I trust them. There has been a lot of magic in the world this morning. Why are you crying?"
"Who are you?" She asked ignoring my question.
"I live here. I- I think I followed your trail to this place. The sand? Maybe it was in your gown. And the flowers. Did you make the flowers grow? We don't usually have many flowers in the winter."
"You ask many questions. Will you tell me your name?"
"Sorry, I'm Emille, my family live just down the valley, all seven of us. I come here to be alone sometimes. What is your name? Where did you come from?"
Seemingly satisfied she wiped her tears and stood to curtsy.
"I am Princess Nasmina, daughter to the Shah of Persia. I am the shortest of my Father's many daughters, the most overlooked. My Father was displeased with me for learning the Jin's Magic. He shouted at me, told me that he would never find me a husband if I continued to be so wilful. I was upset for displeasing him and ran away. But as I ran the Jin's seeing eye fell from my sirwal pocket and smashed at my feet. I was sucked through time and space and transported here.
"A man dressed in a suit of lights found me. He told me he was the King of Winter and would make me his Queen, but he was cold inside and out and I refused to go with him."
"Jack Frost," I said " I'm not sure he is a King exactly but he certainly knows about the cold."
"I could see he was greedy for my magic. He bound my wrists with trailing Ivy and forced me to go with him. He pulled me on until the dawn but then said we must both become invisible and ride the wind. He threw me to the floor and began to chant an ancient rhyme:
'Cold of night make cold the day,
Death upon me if I stay.
From the North winds I shall spy
In the cracks 'tween Earth and sky'
"As he chanted the air around him shimmered and cracked with cold. I was very frightened, but then I remembered the Jin's magic mirror. He had given it to me as a talisman against evil and I knew I must use it to protect myself. As I pulled it free of my sirwal the King of Winter- what did you call him Jack Frost? -He saw that I had something in my hand and went to grab me, but in doing so he looked in the mirror and his own magic rebounded on him. It must have been the ice in his heart that consumed him and he turned into frozen form.
"I ran away as fast as I could. But how can I run when I do not know which way to go? My only hope is to rely on the kindness of strangers."
She began to cry again then and my heart went out to her. I so badly wanted to make her feel less frightened. I had no idea if she knew about the celebration of Christmas but I did. I knew it was a time of goodwill, a time to be with those you love and a time to help those in need.
"Tell, me, is there anything I can do Princess?"
She thought for a moment and then looked at the Hazel switch in my hand.
"Will you make me a gift of that wood?"
"Of course," I said, handing it to her, " but I don't see how that will help."
"You will."
She bent the hazel into a circle, the wood blossoming beneath her hand into a berry wreath in all its bright glory, the two ends knitting together into an eternal loop. She placed the coronet on her head and made a deep curtsy.
"Thank you, Emille. What a beautiful gift you have given."
"But it was just a stick"
"Yes, it was, but the kindness in your thoughts made it blossom into something quite spectacular, wouldn't you agree?" I smiled and returned he curtsy a little awkwardly, feeling embarrassed. "I have nothing to give you in return Emille," she said, "but I can grant you one wish."
A wish! What would you wish for: toys, games, clothes? I thought and thought. I wanted something that would last a life time. I knew that making a difference to someone's life would make me happy far longer than things I would grow out of and finally I realised what I must wish for.
"I've made up my mind Princess. No one should be lost and alone, especially at Christmas. I wish for you to go home to your family."
At that moment the sun's rays broke over the top of the dell flooding the hollow with golden light. I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the glare and saw the air waver around the shortest daughter of the Shah of Persia, like a heat haze, and heard her whisper her thanks, before I was forced to look away. A moment later and the dell was filled with warmth but the princess was gone.
Where she had stood by the tree stump lay the berry wreath on the ground. I picked it up and sat on the stump turning my face to the sun. I smiled with the pleasure of knowing my wish had brought a family together again at Christmas and imagined the joy that would be shared at her homecoming.Later, as I walked back through the woods there was no sign of Jack Frost. It seemed he too had been released from the Jin's magic when the princess returned home. I took the wreath with me and placed it on the windowsill at home for all to see.
Many years have passed since that solstice in the woods when I was just a young girl. Now I have a family of my own. The berry wreath sits at the heart of my family table as fresh as the day it was made, a symbol of giving and of the gathering of loved ones, a symbol of rebirth and hope for the year to come.
Thursday 10 December 2015
Yurtopia
Deep in the chilterns surrounded by a patchwork of undulating countryside there is a Mongolian yurt, squatting in a field. Open up one of the pair of little wooden door and squeeze inside away from the cold and rain and you find yourself in a perfect haven of warmth. There is something deeply comforting about being in a canvas space; the walls still breathe with the wind, canvas edges snapping and trilling against each other stiffly, the rain patters like fairy fingers of a drum, the cold goes on snarling and biting and yet you are insulated from its sharp edges, womb-like.
The Yurt is clean and homely, furnished with pine and farm harvesting boxes. Some are stacked on their side as display units for wares on sale, others hold napkins, jars of cutlery and baked goods. Another table holds the till, a necessity of any business, almost hidden by a selection of tempting cakes. Before ordering at this diminutive counter you must decide where to sit. Do you choose a table close to the books and magazines held in a rack? Close to the warmth of the wood burning fire perhaps? Or do you choose a cosy corner or position yourself under the light of the central oculus? All are equally welcoming.
The furniture is delightful, distressed painted chairs in wedgewood blues and greens with wax scrubbed pine tables, a hedgerow arrangement at the centre of each. Once seated you can admire the construction of this cocoon, the curve of the upright spars, the warmth of the natural wood still glowing with life. The spokes of a giant cartwheel span out from the oculus backed with deep red felt insulating cloth to the trellised walls supporting the roof. It is December and the hallowe'en spiders webs and pumpkins have been replaced with trailing Ivy and fairy lights, and willow stars wrapped in twine and tinsel strands twirl slowly on their fixings.
The menu is simple, homely, local and tempting and when you finally decide what to indulge in, anything from a cup of tea to brunch, it arrives on touching shabby chic mismatched china giving a sense that it is all run by a little girl playing with her grandmothers old tea sets and serving her dolls, yet with delicious aromas and beautiful attention to detail, right down to the tiny metal watering cans that are used to serve the sugar in.
If this seems like your sort of place do feel free to comment and I'll let you know where it is....but I think some of you may already know!
The Yurt is clean and homely, furnished with pine and farm harvesting boxes. Some are stacked on their side as display units for wares on sale, others hold napkins, jars of cutlery and baked goods. Another table holds the till, a necessity of any business, almost hidden by a selection of tempting cakes. Before ordering at this diminutive counter you must decide where to sit. Do you choose a table close to the books and magazines held in a rack? Close to the warmth of the wood burning fire perhaps? Or do you choose a cosy corner or position yourself under the light of the central oculus? All are equally welcoming.
The furniture is delightful, distressed painted chairs in wedgewood blues and greens with wax scrubbed pine tables, a hedgerow arrangement at the centre of each. Once seated you can admire the construction of this cocoon, the curve of the upright spars, the warmth of the natural wood still glowing with life. The spokes of a giant cartwheel span out from the oculus backed with deep red felt insulating cloth to the trellised walls supporting the roof. It is December and the hallowe'en spiders webs and pumpkins have been replaced with trailing Ivy and fairy lights, and willow stars wrapped in twine and tinsel strands twirl slowly on their fixings.
The menu is simple, homely, local and tempting and when you finally decide what to indulge in, anything from a cup of tea to brunch, it arrives on touching shabby chic mismatched china giving a sense that it is all run by a little girl playing with her grandmothers old tea sets and serving her dolls, yet with delicious aromas and beautiful attention to detail, right down to the tiny metal watering cans that are used to serve the sugar in.
If this seems like your sort of place do feel free to comment and I'll let you know where it is....but I think some of you may already know!
Sunday 6 December 2015
Horoscope
It is measured in a handspan across the heavens. A mini ruler, Mercury, a tyrant among the galaxies is bent on war and must be brought to heal by the twelve star groups. Gemini stands back to back with her sister and they call to their brethren, a call for balance and peace through a war of Titans . Orion and Sagittarius will lead the vanguard with Libra assessing the advance with analytical prowess. Dexterous Scorpio will wield sword and axe and bow, simultaneously firing flaming arrows into the red mists of Mars and ringing hammer blows that will vibrate across the blackness of space. Leo will pounce on Mars and toy mercilessly with the mini ruler as with a mouse. They will not bend to his discriminating demands, each wanting instead the freedom of the heavens for all eternity, to live with prudence and justice.
And when the war is done and the anger spent they will celebrate with a victory feast. The Stars will put on their lustre and dance under aurora's skirts while Mars dips his head to the horizon. Peace will be restored and we will weigh our souls in feathers to the end of time.
And when the war is done and the anger spent they will celebrate with a victory feast. The Stars will put on their lustre and dance under aurora's skirts while Mars dips his head to the horizon. Peace will be restored and we will weigh our souls in feathers to the end of time.
Thursday 3 December 2015
Bonfire
My view of you, skewed by experience and the dark slanted line of the bonfire structure growing between us, did not change, mangled by dusks imaginings. To everyone else you were a curmudgeonly old battler but not to me, I knew it was just a crust, a gruff exterior,the grit of crumbs on a piece of warm buttered toast. Other people, they didn't know how to approach you, didn't know what to say to disguise their own embarrassment at your misfortunes. They had not figured it out, the secret; that it wasn't about what you said but whether you were able to just be, listen for the wisdom and peace. There is communion in being with you, and even standing out here in the rain with you, silently, I could see there were angels in the margin of your notebook. There is far more to you than the eye can see, rays of sunshine at the heart of you. Already the tensions that had been spilling out of me, the frustrations of butting heads with my peers, literally and figuratively, as I kicked uselessly at the wood when I arrived, were beginning to slip away.
You always had a way to occupy my idle hands, my idle thoughts, and if I waited long enough you always instructed me.
"Rub off your sharp edges and fit in. Take time to find the right angle to approach someone. I know you have it in you, you're here aren't you." And there it was, a beacon of hope in the murk, a way forward. I was not required to reply, explain myself, just build the bonfire with you and consider the truth. You continued changing gear imperceptibly. "Triangular shapes make the most stable structures, wide and solid at the base. You want to make sure that the fire falls in on itself, not over you."
I watched the angles of the mangled branches knit together in a loose weave, manoeuvring them into relationship with one another and went to collect more of the brushwood from the side of the pond. The rain had stopped now, as you said it would, and feathered flies flew into the stillness of the water's tension, landing in the last rays of sun as it peeked from behind the sluggish grey clouds. The angle of the sun was so low that it lent the flies halos even before they were gobbled by the fish. I stood there a moment contemplating what had passed. The summer seemed so long ago now, the days of skinny dipping and paddling, of stolen kisses behind the reeds, of laughter and splashing, days where the pond would daily be fed with wet swimming costumes and hot limbs. It would come round again, I knew it would, as sure as the freckles on my nose, but it would not be the same. Innocence can only be lost once. Now the water was a shadow in which temptation swims.
I turned back and watched your elongated alter ego angled over the grass as you bent to strike a match. It began with smouldering and dry grass turning to glinting strands of tinsel and then the timber caught; a blister of heat and fire and life in the dark, a glow of ethereal mathematics, of fortune and physics. And there you stood, head bowed with age, arthritic knotted hands mangled together on the fork handle, your secret joy dancing in the waxing lights of it.
You always had a way to occupy my idle hands, my idle thoughts, and if I waited long enough you always instructed me.
"Rub off your sharp edges and fit in. Take time to find the right angle to approach someone. I know you have it in you, you're here aren't you." And there it was, a beacon of hope in the murk, a way forward. I was not required to reply, explain myself, just build the bonfire with you and consider the truth. You continued changing gear imperceptibly. "Triangular shapes make the most stable structures, wide and solid at the base. You want to make sure that the fire falls in on itself, not over you."
I watched the angles of the mangled branches knit together in a loose weave, manoeuvring them into relationship with one another and went to collect more of the brushwood from the side of the pond. The rain had stopped now, as you said it would, and feathered flies flew into the stillness of the water's tension, landing in the last rays of sun as it peeked from behind the sluggish grey clouds. The angle of the sun was so low that it lent the flies halos even before they were gobbled by the fish. I stood there a moment contemplating what had passed. The summer seemed so long ago now, the days of skinny dipping and paddling, of stolen kisses behind the reeds, of laughter and splashing, days where the pond would daily be fed with wet swimming costumes and hot limbs. It would come round again, I knew it would, as sure as the freckles on my nose, but it would not be the same. Innocence can only be lost once. Now the water was a shadow in which temptation swims.
I turned back and watched your elongated alter ego angled over the grass as you bent to strike a match. It began with smouldering and dry grass turning to glinting strands of tinsel and then the timber caught; a blister of heat and fire and life in the dark, a glow of ethereal mathematics, of fortune and physics. And there you stood, head bowed with age, arthritic knotted hands mangled together on the fork handle, your secret joy dancing in the waxing lights of it.
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