Twelve

There is a place at the edge of the curve of a magnolia leaf where it is told there is a door between the living and the dead. There are some whose blood and bone, knit together with purple bells tingling lilac and ruby throated hummingbird song, is the key. They simply pass between worlds with no trace. There is no door too rusty for them to glide through, their entrance welcomed by the guardians; though they require of others who find this door a key before granting passage.
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Ray’s Dream

The Druid named Jonas scattered resin on the glowing coals while humming softly. Smoke rose up into the air, wispy at first, then coalescing into thicker smog as he laid damp pine over top. He added a branch with pine needles, pinecones, and stepped back to watch the glow, listen to the sizzle, crack and pop while chanting slowly. A spicy earthy fragrance filled the air and Ray breathed in deeply where he sat cross-legged by the fire, his eyes glazed over. Jonas didn’t have to look at Ray to know it wouldn’t be long before he’d see the images swirling in the flames, he didn’t have to look at Ray to wonder would the youth allow himself to step into the dream, find what he was looking for, return from his journey whole again? The Druid did not know.  He kept chanting, picking up speed, until he felt Ray slip away. Then he swayed while chanting at a steady pace, maintaining a rhythm to call Ray back with from where he had gone . . . . .
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Into the Portal: A Whispering Wind Adventure

The trees watched. They had been watching for the Druid while he slept deep inside the bowels of an Ancient One, Elder Hemlock. The tree and man went into a deep sleep to last two hundred and sixty years. The trees had been the Druids eyes and ears. Over the years one had fallen to lightening, another to wind, and others to the woodsman’s axe, but not before they had passed on the Druid’s request to their seeds, embedded this trust in the unformed cells of trees yet to grow. Planted by nuthatches here and there and there and there, the ones that went uneaten sprouted and grew, carrying the sacred trust onward. The fallen ones crumbled into the mycelial network feeding the fungi with their knowing, implanted it into the roots and hearts of the bloodroot and trillium, so that with time all beings held this petition deep within, a living thing within. When some fallen trees were burned as firewood they released their knowing to the flames to carry on as smoke into the embrace of air and into the breath of everything, and so Everything waited, waited and watched, scented and tasted; even the house the woodsman built, the very logs stood vigil, sending out their gleanings on pathways unseen by the ordinary eye.
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booties

Once there was and once there wasn’t, an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many children she didn’t know what to do . . . . until she did. Her husband was a shoemaker and he made the finest shoes to be found anywhere. From far and wide people came to have their feet outlined by his delicate long fingered hands. These tracings he’d turn into a pattern from which to stitch them their shoes, and oh the shoes he made! The lightest yet strongest of shoes, high heeled, stillettoed, or flat, sturdy, buttoned, laced, or pointy, to dance or walk miles and miles in::whatever your fancy he could stitch a shoe for your foot, a shoe to match your soles deepest longing. He was descended from a shoemaker, who was descended from a shoemaker, who was descended from yet another shoemaker, who was the son of a poor man, a no body, happily making shoes in a small village, until one day he was found. Discovered, uncovered, and recovered he was brought to a jolly jostling city to the door of a wealthy tradesman, a merchant.  Continue reading “booties”

Sketi

Deep in the woods lived a herd of deer. One day they heard the apple tree calling to them. They held council about the matter, for out of the woods and under an oak tree lived a ferocious beast. The herd was terrified of this beast who they would certainly have to pass to get to the apple tree. While they were in council the younger does and some fawns were peeking out from between the hickories, pines, and poplars. They were looking at the sleeping beast and longing to go to where the apple tree was calling. Finally, one of them couldn’t stand it anymore!
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