Brigit

February First

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February First has come and gone. I didn't make Red Soup. I didn't go for a walk around the neighborhood. Things are busy and complicated again this spring. But good. Really good.

I offer you a repost of my most favorite story on this blog. The story of Lovely Luz and Sweet Brigit. I originally wrote this in February of 2010 and I still love it. I hope you do too.

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Once upon a time there was a little girl named Luz who lived with her sickly mother in a small cabin near the woods. Her mother had been weak for a long time and Luz had to take care of herself and her mother. Luz cleaned the houses of other families in their village, collected firewood and tended a small flock of chickens and two pretty nanny goats in the yard behind the cabin, so there was always something to put on the table but never much extra.

In the autumn, as the leaves were falling and the days were getting shorter, Luz’s mother helped her light a candle in a little glass lantern. Her mother was able to come to the door and watch Luz as she paraded around the yard singing songs to the nanny goats and chickens. “Remember,” her mother said “as the light of the sun fades in the autumn, we can keep the light in our lantern through the winter.”

Photo by calynde

Winter was always hard for Luz and her mother. The days were cold and snowy but Luz needed to go out most days to collect more firewood. The nanny goats stopped giving milk and eventually even the chickens stopped laying eggs, but the cold left Luz and her mother hungry for those nourishing foods. There was one wonderful thing that happened in the winter, though. Every evening, after the wood had been stacked by the fireplace and the chickens had been shut in their coops, the goats had been given fresh hay and the dinner dishes washed and put away, Luz’s mother would tell her stories about the beautiful Goddess Brigit. Brigit was always good to the poor and people who were like her always had good things happen to them.

One day just before Christmas, Luz was out along the edge of the forest by her cabin collecting firewood. She had a good armload and was about to turn back seeing as it was getting dark when she saw a man huddled around a tiny campfire. Despite the cold air he was dressed in rags, working hard to warm his fingers which were turning blue. Luz remembered the story her mother told the night before where Brigit gave away a precious silver necklace to a poor woman in need. Brigit’s sisters were angry, but the next day they found a sliver necklace to replace the one given away. Well, Luz thought, whether she found another pile of wood or not, this man needs my firewood, as well as the hardboiled egg and small wedge of cheese my mother sent with me, more than I do.

“Here you go, sir.” Said Luz, setting her gifts down near him. “I don’t have much, but you need it more.”

“Thank you, child.” He said. “I am almost home, and your gifts and kindness will warm me until I get there. Bless you, child, bless you.”

Luz hurried home, for it was getting dark, but just as she reached the path back to her own cabin she came across a large pile of dry, good firewood. She picked it up and hurried home.

“Oh mama!” she cried. “I left the wood I had gathered with a poor man near the forest, but look! There’s a pile of dry, good firewood here!”

“What a lovely girl you are, Luz.” Her mother said. “Just like Brigit you give more than what you can spare. But look, Brigit left this wood for you as a gift. Those who keep the sun’s light strong and care for others are always taken care of.”

A few weeks later a neighbor had taken Luz’s mother on a visit to a friend’s house in the village and Luz was home alone, tending the chickens and nanny goats. Luz went out and collected the last few eggs the chickens would lay that winter and went inside to make a small lunch for herself. Just then an old woman walked up the path by their house and asked if Luz had any bread to spare. The woman looked like she needed more than just a slice of bread to get her home and Luz remembered the story of the old woman who gave Brigit shelter one cold night. The woman tore down a piece of her house and killed her only calf to feed and warm Brigit, but in the morning her cow had another calf and her house was whole and warm. Well, thought, Luz, I don’t have to tear down our cabin to give this woman a warm lunch so she invited her in.

Luz prepared the last of the eggs with the last of the goat milk and a few slices of bread to make a warm meal for the woman, and let her sit by the warm fire for as long as she needed.

“Thank you, child.” she said. “I am on my way to visit my daughter, and your gifts and kindness will warm me until I get there. Bless you, child, bless you.”

When Luz’s mother came home Luz rushed to find the last food in the cupboard to make her dinner, but instead of a crust of bread she found a full egg basket and two whole wheels of cheese.

“Oh mama!” she cried. “I fed a poor woman the last of our eggs this afternoon, but look! There’s a dozen eggs here!”

“What a lovely girl you are, Luz.” Her mother said. “Just like Brigit you give more than what you can spare. But look, Brigit left those eggs for you as a gift. Those who keep the sun’s light strong and care for others are always taken care of.”

Late in the winter, after Christmas but while the days are still dark and cold Luz’s mother, who had always been weak, got terribly sick. Luz was so worried, especially when her mother couldn’t even get out of bed. She kept her mother warm and the fire strong, and prayed to Brigit for help.

After three nights of this, when it felt like winter will never end and her mother would never be well, Luz fell asleep by the fire. She dreamed she heard an old woman walking by the window of their little cabin chanting.

Moving rightways with the sun
My blessings weave and bend
Weave and bend

All winter you did keep the light
Spring blessing soon will rise
Soon will rise

Luz rose from her seat by the fire and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She grabbed her Martinmas lantern and headed out to follow the sound. Ahead of her she saw a woman dressed all in black, with hair white as the snow and a face dark like old wood walking slowly through the woods. Luz followed her quietly, sure the old woman must know she’s there, but the old woman never turned around or stopped chanting. She just kept walking into the woods. Luz followed the woman further into the woods than she had ever been before but she wasn’t afraid, the old woman seemed to have a light and warmth that made Luz feel safe.

Moving rightways with the sun
My blessings weave and bend
Weave and bend

All winter you did keep the light
Spring blessing soon will rise
Soon will rise

Eventually, as the sky started to lighten in the east, the old woman, with Luz following behind, came to a clearing with an old stone well in it. The old woman stood by the well and finally spoke, “Come closer child. Do you know who I am?” Luz shook her head, too afraid to say what she knew must be true.

“I know I don’t look like the beautiful woman in the stories your mother tells you, but I am her, I am Brigit. This night is my night, this morning my dawn. You carry with you the light you have nurtured all winter with good deeds and warm stories. Because you have done so well at caring for that light through the long dark winter you may have a wish. What do you wish for, child?”

“I wish for my Mother to be well again.. and.. and for this winter to be over! I am so sick of it being cold all the time.”

Brigit laughed, “Granted one wish and you ask for two. No matter, it can be arranged.”

Just then, the first morning bird sang out, and the first ray of dawn’s light broke over the horizon. The old crone Brigit pulled the bucket out of the well, dipped her hands into the cold, clear water, and splashed her face. Her robes instantly turned to red, and her hair to a speckled grey and black, and her face to that of a matronly woman of middle age. In just another moment, the disk of the sun broke above the horizon, spilling full sunlight into the clearing with the well. The mother Brigit dipped her hands into the bucket again, and once more splashed a handful of water onto her face. In the blink of an eye her robes turned to pure white, her hair to a deep auburn red and her face fair as that of a young maiden.

“Come, bring your lamp here,” said the maiden Brigit and Luz did as she was asked. Brigit took the lantern from her hands and blew the candle out, but the light didn’t go away. It seemed to Luz that the light from the candle, instead of being kept inside the small lantern, spread throughout the whole forest. The morning dew sparkled on swelling buds and the sun seemed even brighter than it had been the day before. The snow was still deep and the air cold, but Luz could tell spring would be on its way soon.

The maiden Brigit pulled a small tin cup out of her cloak and filled it with water from the well. “Take this to your Mother and have her drink it. She will be well soon, and spring is on its way. Keep my memory alive, Luz, tell stories about my good deeds and live them out in your own life. Blessed be.”

Photo by dawn m. armfield

Luz took the cup and her lantern and hurried home, as quickly as she could, but careful to not spill a drop of the precious water Brigit pulled from the sacred well.

“Oh mama!” she cried, when she got home. “I met sweet Brigit at the well and she gave me this magic water to make you well! Oh, mama! You will be well again!”

“What a lovely girl you are, Luz.” Her mother said. “Brigit found you who are so like herself and has blessed us all. Those who keep the sun’s light strong and care for others are always taken care of.”

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February First 2009: February the First

February First 2010: Lovely Luz and Sweet Bridgit This happens to be my all time favorite post from all two plus years of blogging. Please go check it out. 

Feburary First 2011: Brigid - The Goddess of Poetry

February First 2012: Brigid's Red Soup and Magic

The Columber

Full Birth Moon

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The Colomber

Dino Buzzati, translated by Lawrence Venuti

     When Stefano Roi was twelve years old, he asked his father, a sea captain and the owner of a fine sailing ship, to take him on board as his birthday gift. 

     “When I grow up,” the boy said, “I want to go to sea with you. And I shall command ships even more beautiful and bigger than yours.”
     “God bless you, my son,” the father answered. And since his vessel had to leave that very day, he took the boy with him.
     It was a splendid sunny day, and the sea was calm. Stefano, who had never been on a ship, happily wandered around on deck, admiring the complicated maneuvers of the sails. He asked the sailors about this and that, and they gladly explained everything to him. 

    When the boy had gone astern, he stopped, his curiosity aroused, to observe something that intermittently rose to the surface at a distance of two to three hundred meters, in line with the ship’s wake.
     Although the ship was indeed moving fast, carried by a great quarter wind, that thing always maintained the same distance. And though the boy did not make out what it was, there was some indefinable air about it, which attracted him intensely.
     No longer seeing Stefano on deck, the father came down from the bridge, after having shouted his name in vain, and went to look for him.
     “Stefano, what are you doing there, standing so still?” the captain asked his son, finally perceiving him on the stern as he stared at the waves.
     “Papa, come here and see.”
     The father came, and he too looked in the direction indicated by the boy, but he could not see anything.
     “There’s a dark thing that rises in the wake every so often,” Stefano said, “and it follows behind us.”
     “Despite my forty years,” said the father, “I believe I still have good eyesight. But I see absolutely nothing.”
     And the boy insisted, the father went to get a telescope, and he scrutinized the surface of the sea, in line with the wake. Stefano saw him turn pale.

     “What is it? Why do you make that face?”
     “Oh, I wish I had never listened to you,” the captain exclaimed. “Now I’m worried about
you. What you see rising from the water and following us is not some object. That is a colomber. It’s the fish that sailors fear above all others, in every sea in the world. It is a
tremendous mysterious shark, more clever than man. For reasons that perhaps no one will ever know, it chooses its victim, and when it has chosen, it pursues him for years and years, for his entire life, until it has succeeded in devouring him. And the strange this is this: No one can see the colomber except the victim himself and his blood relations.”
     “It’s not a story?”
     “No. I have never seen it. But from descriptions I have heard many times, I immediately
recognized it. That bison like muzzle, that mouth continually opening an closing, those terrible teeth. Stefano, there’s no doubt, the colomber has ominously chosen you, and as long as you go to sea, it will give you no peace. Listen to me: We are going back to land now, immediately; you will go ashore and never leave it again, not for any reason whatsoever. You must promise me you won’t. Seafaring is not for you, my son. You must resign yourself. After all, you will be able to make your fortune on land too.”
     Having said this, he immediate reversed his course, reentered the port, and on the pretext of a sudden illness, he put his son ashore. Then he left again without him.
     Deeply troubled, the boy remained on the shore until the last tip of the masts sank behind the horizon. Beyond the pier that bounded the port, the seas was completely deserted. But looking carefully, Stefano could perceive a small black point which intermittently surfaced on the water: it was “his” colomber, slowly moving back and forth, obstinately waiting for him.

     From then on, with every expedient the boy was dissuaded from his desire to go to sea. His father sent him to study at an inland city, hundreds of kilometers away. And for some time, distracted by his new surroundings, Stefano no longer thought about the sea monster. Still, he returned home for summer vacations, and the first thing he did, as soon as he had some free time, was hurry to the end of the pier for a kind of verification, although he fundamentally considered it unnecessary. After so many years, even supposing that all the stories his father told him were true, the colomber had certainly given up its siege.
     But Stefano stood there, astonished, his heart pounding. At a distance of two to three hundred meters from the pier, in the open sea, the sinister fish was moving back and forth, slowly, raising its muzzle from the water every now and then and turning toward land, as it anxiously watched for whether Stefano was coming at last.
     So the idea of that hostile creature waiting for him day and night became a secret obsession for Stefano. And even in the distant city it cropped up to wake him with worry in the middle of the night. He was safe, of course; hundreds of kilometers separated him from the colomber. And yet he knew that beyond the mountains, beyond the forests and the plains, the shark was waiting for him. He might have moved even to the most remote continent, and still the would have appeared in the mirror of the nearest sea, with the inexorable obstinacy of a fatal instrument.
     Stefano, who was a serious and eager boy, profitably continued his studies, and as soon as he was a man, he found a dignified and well-paying position at a store in the inland city. Meanwhile, his father died through illness, his magnificent ship was sold by his widow, and his son found himself the heir to a modest fortune. Work, friends, diversions, first love affairs- Stefano’s life was not well under way, but the thought of the colomber nonetheless tormented him like a mirage that was fatal and fascinating at the same time; and as the days passed, rather than disappear, it seemed to become more insistent.
     

     Great are the satisfactions of an industrious, well-to-do, and quiet life, but greater still is the attraction of the abyss. Stefano was hardly twenty-two years old when, having said goodbye to his inland friends and resigned from his job, he returned to his native city and told his mother of his firm intention to follow his father’s trade. The woman, to whom Stefano had never mentioned the mysterious shark, joyfully welcomed his decision. To have her son abandon the sea for the city had always seemed to her, in her heart, a betrayal of the family’s tradition.
     Stefano began to sail, giving proof of his sea-worthiness, his resistance to fatigue, and his
intrepid spirit. He sailed and sailed, and in the wake of his ship, day and night, in good weather and in storms, the colomber trudged along. He knew that this was his curse and his penalty, and precisely for this reason, perhaps, he did not find the strength to sever himself from it. And no one on board, except him, perceived the monster.
     “Don’t you see anything over there?” he asked his companions from time to time, pointing at the wake.
     “No, we don’t see anything at all. Why?”
     “I don’t know. It seemed to me…”
     “You didn’t see a colomber, by any chance, did you?” the sailors asked, laughing and
touching wood.
     “Why are you laughing? Why are you touching wood?”
     “Because the colomber is an animal that spares no one. And if it has begun to follow this
ship, it means that one of us is doomed.”
     But Stefano did not slacken. The uninterrupted threat that followed on his heels seemed in fact to strengthen his will, his passion for the sea, his courage in times of strife and danger.
When he felt that he was master of his trade, he used his modest patrimony to acquire a small steam freighter with a partner; then he became the sole proprietor of it, and thanks to a series of successful shipments, he could subsequently buy a true merchantman, setting out with always more-ambitious aims. But the successes, and the millions, were unable to remove that continual torment from his soul; nor did he ever try, on the other hand, to sell the ship and retire to undertake different enterprises on land.
     To sail and sail was his only thought. Just as soon as he set foot on land in some port after a long journey, the impatience to depart again immediately pricked him. He knew that outside the colomber was waiting for him and that the colomber was synonymous with ruin. With nothingness. An indomitable impulse dragged him without rest, from one ocean to another. 

     Until one day, Stefano suddenly realized that he had grown old, very old; and no one around him could explain why, rich as he was, he did not finally leave the cursed life of the sea. He was old, and bitterly unhappy, because his entire existence had been spent in that mad flight across the seas, to escape his enemy. But the temptation of the abyss had always been greater for him than the joys of a prosperous and quiet life.

     One evening, while his magnificent ship was anchored offshore at the port where he was born, he felt close to death. He then called his second officer, in whom he had great trust, and ordered him not to oppose what he was about to do. The other man promised, on his honor.
     Having gotten this assurance, Stefano revealed to the second officer the story of the colomber that had continued to pursue him uselessly for nearly fifty years. The officer listened to him, frightened.
     “It has escorted me from one end of the world to the other,” Stefano said, “with a faithfulness that not even the noblest friend could have shown. Now I am about to die. The colomber too will be terribly old and weary by now. I cannot betray it.”
     Having said this, he took his leave of the crew, ordered a small boat to be lowered into the sea, and boarded it, after he made them give him a harpoon.
     “Now I am going to meet it,” he announced. “It isn’t right to disappoint it. But I shall
struggle, with all my might.”
     With a few weary strokes of the oars, he drew away from the side of the ship. Officers and
sailors saw him disappear down below, on the placid sea, shrouded in the nocturnal shadows. In the sky was a crescent moon.
     He did not have to work very hard. Suddenly the colomber’s horrible snout emerged at the side of the boat.
     “Here I am with you, finally,” Stefano said. “Now it’s just the two of us.” And gathering his
remaining strength, he raised the harpoon to strike.
     “Uh,” the colomber groaned, imploringly, “what a long journey it’s taken to find you. I too
am wasted with fatigue. How much you made me swim. And you kept on fleeing. You never
understood at all.”
     “What?” asked Stefano, with the point of his harpoon over the colomber’s heart.
     “I have not pursued you around the world to devour you, as you thought. I was charged by the King of the Sea only to deliver this to you.”
     And the shark stuck out its tongue, offering the old captain a small phosphorescent
sphere. Stefano picked it up and examined it. It was a pearl of unusual size. And he recognized it as the famous Perla del Mare, which brought luck, power, love, and peace of mind to whoever possessed it. But now it was too late.
     “Alas!” said the captain, shaking his head sadly. “How wrong it all is. I managed to
condemn myself, and I have ruined your life.”
     “Goodbye, poor man,” answered the colomber. And it sank into the black waters forever.
 

     Two month later, pushed by an undertow, a small boat came alongside an abrupt reef. It was sighted by several fisherman, who drew near, curious. In the boat, still seated, was a sunbleached skeleton: between the little bones of its fingers it grasped a small round stone.
     The colomber is a huge fish, frightening to behold and extremely rare. Depending on the sea and the people who live by its shores, the fish is also called the kolombrey, kahloubrha, kalonga, kalu-balu, chalunggra. Naturalists strangely ignore it. Some even maintain that is does not exist.

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I first read this story in the journal Parabola: Myth and the Quest for Meaning. I found their May 1983 edition in a library and the story sang when  I read it. I found it a number of places online (like here, here and here). The images are Gustav Dore prints done in 1876 to illustrate Coleridge's epic The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I found them at this site, where you can purchase them, if you are into that sort of thing. I clearly don't own any of these pieces of art, and am clearly not making any money off reposting them here.

I will post more about my thoughts on this story soon. I promise. 

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** This winter was tough and I got messed up in my calendar. I wrote this thinking it was the Milk Moon but it was really the Birth Moon. Since the post itself is more about the the new year of 2012, I just changed the tags and labels. For more on my thoughts about this, see this post. **

Full Birth Moon 2008: Outer Darkness and Inner Hope

Full Birth Moon 2009: New Year! and A Story for the Birth Moon (these posts are dated 2010, but are for the year that took place mostly in 2009)

 Full Birth Moon 2010: The Dark of the Dark.

I Didn't See Fairies When I was Little

More on May Day

May Day 2009: May Day
May Day 2010: Glory Days
May Day 2011: The Brook in the King's Garden

P.S. My last post, The Brook in the King's Garden was my 100th post! That's a lot of writing on my part and a lot of reading on your part. Go us!

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I didn't see fairies when I was little, I had to learn to see them after I was grown. As a child I played in redwood groves and mudflats, feeling the pulsing life in the land. I pretended to be raccoons, pioneers and alligators in oak groves, meadows and creeks, as close to the grass and sky as snakes and gulls. I didn't need fairies to know the living presences of the earth.

There comes a time, though, when we separate from that wholeness. We fall, we wake up, we walk through a doorway we didn't even know was there. We become aware of our Self and our Self's desires, needs and fears. I still walked in dark forests and open fields but I was thinking about little sisters, algebra and boys. I saw the flowers and clouds, but I didn't SEE them any longer.

My path back to seeing fairies started with my intellect. Those early experiences in the woods and fields had laid a foundation for an interest in natural science that I pursued through high school and college. I remember coming home from 11th grade biology class, going to my favorite wooded canyon and experiencing deep awe over the xylem and phloem system in an fir tree - it was transporting gallons of water, dozens of feet with nothing more than water tension, evaporation and magic. I laid down on the forest floor and looked up at those trees, the wonderment of nature washing over me like a wave. I didn't see fairies that day, but I was beginning to feel them again.

These days I do see fairies, sprites, gnomes and even sometimes angels. They are a form of the divine spirit, personification of the subtle life force in all natural and living elements. Flower fairies, water sprites, pixies of the woods, these are to me projections of the divine spirit in the way our own human souls are. I have actually learned to perceive these elementals. My scientific mind was an early gateway to recognizing the Ultimate Mystery, but I have found other gateways show themselves when the intellect is suspended, or balanced with other forms of perceiving and thinking. A childlike, beginners mind and a rich diet of beautiful stories have opened my heart and my eyes to the dancing forms of the divine all around me.

When have you seen fairies? When have you been so in tune with the subtle forces of nature that you don't need to see them? How are you celebrating the blossoming of the year this spring?

The Brook in the King's Garden

May Day

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This story is from Why the Chimes Rang by Raymond Macdonald Alden. The story with original illustrations, and all the rest of the stories in this lovely book can be seen at Mainlesson.com. It is a lovely story for May Day because this is the time of year when the veil between this world and the fairy world is thin. This story matches my own beliefs about fairies by showing them as the protector spirits of the natural elements, rather like the Lorax who speaks for the trees, because the trees have no tongues. This is a lovely, sweet little tale and I hope you will enjoy it on this beautiful May Day.

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There was once a King of a far-away country who was a tyrant. He did not care to make the people happy, but only to please himself. He was used to being obeyed so quickly by those who feared him, that he became very angry if any one failed to do as he commanded. It seemed to him that not only people should obey him, but animals and plants, and everything in the country where he ruled. 

When he was walking in his garden, if he saw a plant or a tree that he did not like, he would wave his scepter at it, and say "Be gone!" And when he next passed that way, it would be gone, for the King's servants, knowing how angry it made him to be disobeyed, would quickly remove anything that displeased him. In this way the King came to think that even the wild things of nature were under his control.

There was a Brook that flowed through one side of the King's garden, after it had come down from a high mountain and passed through a meadow and along one side of the town. It was a merry, chattering Brook, that made almost any one happy to hear it, and along its banks grew lovely willow trees and many fine flowers. In the palace garden, of course, were the loveliest flowers of all; and the King was very fond of walking along the margin of the Brook.

But one day, while he was walking there, his foot slipped a little, so that he stepped into the water; and as the water was cold, and he had on very good clothes which it might harm, the King grew very angry. He struck the Brook with his scepter, and it splashed the water into his face. This, of course, angered him all the more, and it seemed to him now that the Brook was laughing at him, as it gurgled over the stones. So the King lifted up his scepter again, and said: "Be gone! I will not have any Brook in my kingdom!"

When his officers heard this they were very much troubled. For they knew that the Brook would not obey the King, and they did not know how to make believe that it had. They could not hide it or take it away. No one knew just where it came from, so they could not stop it at the source; and, if they did so, they knew that it would make a great deal of trouble in the town and in the country near by. For the Brook not only gave people pleasure by its music and its flowers, but it turned mill-wheels, and made ponds where people fished, and furnished water for people to drink, and made gardens and farms fertile, and did many useful things. So the officers decided that they would try to keep the King away from that part of the garden, hoping that he would forget what he had said.

But he did not forget. When he went out next day, and saw the Brook flowing along as merrily as ever, singing over the stones, he said: "Why is the Brook not gone?" When his officers told him that the Brook would not obey him, he said: "It must obey me. Send for all my servants."

So they sent for all his servants, and the King said to them: "The Brook is a bad brook; I will not have it here. Take it away."

So the servants got pails and jars of every kind, and began emptying the Brook. But although they worked for a great many hours, and filled all the tanks in the palace, and poured the water all over the garden, the Brook seemed to be as full as ever.

Then the King said: "Burn it up!" And they brought torches, and sheets of cotton dipped in oil, so as to make the brightest and hottest flames, and they threw these into the Brook. But the Brook only laughed as the flames hissed in it, and it carried off the black shreds of the burnt cotton, and put out all the fire without seeming to work any harder than usual, and in a short time was flowing along as clean and bright as ever.

Then the King said: "Bury it!" And the servants brought carts full of dirt, such as they used in making embankments around the palace, and began to dump these into the Brook. At last it seemed that the King's will was going to be obeyed, for the Brook began to disappear in the great mass of dirt that was poured over it. The servants carried the dirt farther and farther up the stream, until at last they had choked it up at the point where it flowed into the palace grounds. The King thought now that it was gone altogether, and went into his palace contented.

Now the King had a little daughter, whom he loved very much; and when she learned what had been done to the Brook, she felt so sorry that she nearly cried. For the Brook was one of her dearest friends, and she knew how much she would miss it. She lay awake for as much as an hour that night, thinking about it, and decided that in the morning she would go to the Good Gray Woman, and ask her what could be done.

The Good Gray Woman lived in a hut just outside the palace wall, and there was a tiny gate leading through the wall from her house, which had been made so that people from the palace could go to see her; for she was very wise, and knew the water-sprites and the flower-sprites, and all the other creatures that most people never see, and she was always ready to help any one in trouble.

So, very early in the morning the little Princess knocked at the Good Gray Woman's door, and when it opened she told her friend about the Brook. "I am sure my father would not have done it," she said, "if he had known how good the Brook was, and how much we all thought of it. Will you not go to him, and tell him about it? He will believe you."

The Good Gray Woman thought a minute. Then she said:

"I will not go myself, for I do not think I could tell the King anything that you can not tell him just as well. But I will send some friends of mine instead, who I am quite sure can make him understand. What time does the King take his seat on the throne to hear those who have anything to say to him?"

"At nine o'clock every morning," said the Princess.

"Very well," said the Good Gray Woman. "If you are there at nine o'clock, you will see my friends there, too."

The Princess could not think what friends the Good Gray Woman would send; but she believed her, and returned to the palace.

At nine o'clock the King took his seat on his throne, and asked whether any one had come to see him. The Princess was close at hand, waiting to see what would happen. As soon as the King had spoken, she saw in front of the throne two little winged creatures, that seemed to have come there by magic, for no one had seen them enter the room. They hung in the air before the King like butterflies. One of them was gray, like a bit of floating mist, but it was also streaked with all the colors of the rainbow. The other was of a deep blue color that was almost green when the sun shone on it.

"We are water-sprites," said these little creatures to the King, "and we have come to see your Majesty on important business."

"Very good," said the King. He had never seen such creatures before, and found them very interesting.

"I," said the first sprite, "belong to a water-drop from a cloud that was hanging over your garden this morning, and I was also in the beautiful rainbow that your Majesty was admiring yesterday. I came to speak to you about the Brook."

"About the Brook?" said the King. "What do you know about it?"

"Why, I used to live in it," said the sprite. "Then I went on down to the ocean, and then the sun carried me up to the cloud country. And the cloud that I now belong to was all ready to give your garden a little shower this morning, when we saw that the Brook was not there. This made all the drops that used to belong to the Brook feel very bad, for we hoped to get back to it again. So I came to ask you about it."

"Dear me!" said the King. "I had no idea that the Brook had anything to do with you. I shall have to think about it. And who are you?" he said to the other sprite.

"I belong to a water-drop from the ocean," said the sprite. "I, too, once lived in the Brook, and have been waiting all night for the other drops that it always brings us. But they stopped coming, and we all felt very sorry. So I was sent to see what was the matter."

"Dear me!" said the King again. "I had no idea that the Brook had anything to do with you. I shall have to think about it. But you will have to come and see me some other time."

This was what the King always said when he did not feel sure whether he wanted to do what people were asking him to. When the sprites saw that he would say nothing more, they flew away as silently as they had come.

The Princess waited all day, hoping that her father would think about what the sprites had told him, and command the Brook to be brought back again, for the sake of the cloud-drops and the ocean-drops. But the fact was he soon forgot all about it, and did nothing at all. So the Princess went again to the Good Gray Woman, and asked her if she could send any other friends to help her.

"Oh, yes," said the Good Gray Woman. "They will come to-morrow at the same time."

So the next morning when the King took his seat on his throne as usual, and asked if any one wished to see him, there were two more sprites hovering in the air before him. One of these was gray like a pebble-stone, and the other looked as though it were covered with dark brown velvet, like a caterpillar.

"And who are you?" said the King.

"We are earth-sprites," said the first one. "I belong to the little stones in your Majesty's garden. We were all being polished very beautifully by the Brook, and made ready for all sorts of pretty things. But now we are covered with dirt, and we can not hear the Brook singing above us; so we have come to ask if it can not come back again."

"Humph!" said the King. "More friends of the Brook, are you?"

"Yes," said the second sprite. "I belong to the rich, dark soil that lies around the roots of the trees in your Majesty's garden. The Brook watered us every day, so that we could feed all the growing things that need us. But now we are getting dry and hard, the roots complain that we do not care for them as we used to; and we do not know what to do."

"It is very strange how much that Brook was doing," said the King. "We shall have to see about this. Perhaps we can get another Brook. Come and see me some other time."

So the little Princes again hoped that the King would now remember the Brook and have it brought back. But all that he did was to tell the gardener to take better care of the trees, for he heard that they were complaining of the dry season; and then he forgot all about it. The Princess hardly dared hope that the Good Gray Woman would have any other friends to send to help her, but she tried once again.

"Oh, yes," said the Good Gray Woman, "there are plenty more."

So the next morning, sure enough, there were two more sprites when the King sat down on his throne. These were the most beautiful of all. One of them had wings like the petals of a violet, and a body like a yellow crocus. The other was all in green.

"I don't want to see any more sprites," said the King, "unless they have something new to talk about." But he did not know just how to send them away; so he was obliged to listen when they spoke.

"I am a flower-sprite," said the first one, "and have always lived in your Majesty's garden, by the edge of the Brook. We thought you were very fond of us, and came to tell you that, now that the Brook has gone, we are fast withering; and no new flowers will come up until it returns."

"And I," said the other sprite, "belong to the grass that grew at the edge of the Brook, and have come to tell you that all the grasses are missing it so much, that we think you will surely have pity on us."

The King would not answer these sprites, because he was tired of making them all the same answer, and really did not know what to say. But when they had flown off, he said to himself:

"I can not be bothered with so many sprites. If they keep coming I shall have nothing else to do but hear about the Brook and its friends. I wish it had never been buried."

Now this was just what the Princess was waiting for. She clapped her hands, crying:

"Then can we not have it back again?"'

"I don't know how we could get it back," said the King. "But if you wish, you may ask the Good Gray Woman what we had better do."

The Princess ran off at once to do as the King said. When the Good Gray Woman heard about it she answered:

"Tell the King, your father, to go walking with you on the palace wall, and he will see what has become of the Brook."

So the Princess took the King by the hand, and they went walking on the top of the palace wall. When they came to the place where the Brook had flowed under the wall, they saw a very strange thing. The Brook had not been buried at all! When its channel in the palace garden had been choked with the dirt put there by the King's servants, it had simply turned aside, and made another channel outside the wall; and there it was, flowing along as merrily as ever. Already some little flowers had sprung up along its new banks, and the grass was green all about it. Many children from the town were playing there, feeling very thankful that, instead of flowing into the King's garden, the Brook was out in the big free garden where they could all enjoy it.

When the King had seen all this, he called his servants, and told them to take out all the dirt they had put into the Brook's channel when they had tried to bury it. And they did so. But the Brook liked its new channel very well so, although it sent a little branch to flow in the old place through the King's garden, carrying water to the flowers and trees that had missed it, it never really came back, but went on flowing in the place where it had found so many new friends. It soon made a path to the sea, and continued to send its drops to help make the ocean and the clouds and the rainbows, as well as to polish the stones and water the flowers along its banks. And although I have heard nothing of it for a long time, I am quite sure that it is flowing there merrily still.

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May Day 2009: May Day
May Day 2010: Glory Days

The Nian

New Fasting Moon

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Gung Hay Fat Choy! This week is the start of the Chinese New Year celebrated by millions of people around the world. There are many wonderful stories about this time of year and the traditions that mark the festivities. I wanted to tell you the funny story about the rat, the cat and the race to name the animals of the Chinese zodiac but this story seems more fitting for the moon that Annette Hinshaw calls the Fasting Moon. Maybe at the full moon I'll speak more about the energies of this month. Today, though, I present my retelling of the Chinese folktale about Nian The Dragon.

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A long, long time ago, when the world was still new and people were still learning how to live together there was a village that was tormented by a terrible dragon. Every month at the new moon and the full moon the dragon Nian came down out of the sky at sunset and ate everything it could find. Pigs and dogs were eaten, crops were burned or trampled, even people who were foolish enough to stay outside were swallowed up by the monster. The people learned that they simply had to lock everything they wanted to keep up in their own houses.

One day in late winter a wandering monk came into the village. The people were very friendly and invited him in, fed him and let him sleep by their fires. A couple days after he arrived was the full moon night when the monster dragon was due to descend upon the village. As night fell came the people he had been staying with changed drastically. They rushed around the village, collecting their belongings and herding up their animals. He watched one man knock a little boy down as he dragged his sheep into his shed. People rushed passed the crying boy, carrying their tools or chickens or bags of rice quickly into their own homes. The monk picked the boy up to comfort him but his mother snatched him away, a look of sheer terror on her face. He watched in wonder as these people, who had previously been so friendly and kind to each other, panicked and selfishly protected their own things.

As the first stars appeared in the clear winter sky the old man spotted a glow on the northern horizon. The family he had been staying with dragged him into their house and slammed the door. He peeked out the shuttered window and saw the dragon, gleaming gold and green and blue, as it tore through the town. It made a terrible noise and had terrible teeth that snatched up a wayward chicken leaving nothing behind but a loud ba-gwaaak and a whirlwind of feathers. The old man sat down on a bench across the hearth from the rest of the terrified, huddling family, a puzzled frown on his face.

The next morning the women and young men set out to survey the damages and glean what they could from the fields while the old man met with the leaders of the village. He asked them to tell him everything they knew about the monster. He learned that the only thing that had been successful at scaring the Nian were fire crackers and red lanterns, but that no one had been able to stay outside long enough to scare it off completely. The old man sat on a bench under a tree for the rest of the day, his puzzled frown still on his face.

Life went on in the village over the next two weeks. The chickens and children and dogs ran free in the yards and the young men took the sheep out to graze and the women went out to work in the fields as they always had. The day of the new moon, when the Nian was next due, the monk gathered the people of the village together.

"To scare the Nian away we must work together. All of us must stay outside in the evening waving red lanterns and setting off firecrackers. Together, all the noise and light will scare him away and he will never come back," said the monk.

"It won't work", said one man. "We aren't powerful enough."

"I am too afraid of the dragon," said another. "I don't think I could stay out long enough to be helpful."

"We've tried before and it didn't work," said a third. "What makes you think this time will be different?"

"Because we will all work together," replied the monk. "In the past only had one person with a lantern or firecrackers tried to scare the Nian. This time we will all stand at the edge of the village, together. Where one is weak, many together are strong. And we don't have to be afraid because we will all be there, together. Let us ready the firecrackers and make as many red lanterns as we can."

They spent the rest of the afternoon building lanterns and stringing paper packets of firecrackers together on long strings. The children helped paint lettering on the lantern papers, and a few older boys made a scene by setting off firecrackers before sunset. Everyone worked together cheerfully as the sun started to sink.

"Oh, no!" one man cried as he realized how late it was getting. "I haven't collected my sheep or my chickens. The Nian is sure to eat them."

"There is no time for you to collect your animals now," said the monk, pointing to the glow on the northern horizon. "Your only chance to save your animals is to stand together with all the rest of us, waving a lantern or setting off firecrackers."

Sure enough, just then the dragon came over the northern hills and flew down into the village. It was glowing and gleaming gold and green and blue. It made terrible noises and had terrible teeth that could easily eat one or all of the villagers gathered outside their homes. Just when the monk thought they were all going to bolt back into their homes one young man ran out in front of the group, lantern in his hand, and set off a large string of firecrackers. Soon, the whole village was running toward the dragon, firecrackers popping, lanterns swinging, children and women and men yelling. The dragon saw these terrifying things coming at him and immediately turned and flew away.

They had done it! The villagers had scared off the terrible Nian. The angry yelling turned to joyous shouts as the villagers started to celebrate their victory. They continued to set off firecrackers and everyone brought out food to share. Coins and oranges appeared and were passed around for luck. Some people started dancing like the dragon while others pretended to fight it off, everyone laughing. The party lasted for 15 days until the next full moon. The dragon didn't return and the people rejoiced. Ever since then the people have celebrated the new year on the anniversary of that special new moon night when the village stood together to scare off the Nian.

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New Fasting Moon 2009: The Fasting Moon is New and New Fasting Moon Photo

New Fasting Moon 2010: Spring is Springing

This post is about Chinese New Year, which I mention in the Full Fasting Moon 2009 post.

Here Be Dragons

'Tis the season of the dragon. The story surrounding the festival of Michaelmas is one in which a dragon threatens a person or a community and a hero, harnessing the strength of heavenly iron and their own inner courage, fights and either slays or tames that dragon. The story of St. George and the dragon is the most well known story fitting this theme, but by no means the only one. The Chinese tale of Li Chi and the Serpent and even Tolkein's tale of Bilbo Baggins the Hobbit helping to slay Smaug the Dragon is of this pattern. One of my favorite literary pieces with this theme is Lewis Carroll's The Jabberwocky.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.'

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

'And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

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Dragons are a part of the mythology of almost every culture and have interestingly similar characteristics across vast geographical areas. In European culture dragons are large reptilian beasts that may have strange attributes like wings or talons and are usually terrifying. In Asian culture they tend to be more strictly reptilian and more benevolent. More like ancient spirits than malicious forces. Many folklorists believe that dragon stories come from the observation of dinosaur bones around the world. I tend to fall more into the camp of seeing dragon imagery as manifestation of ancient and deep fears.

The outer world is a very scary place and people of pre-literate consciousness (people of past times, of non-literate cultures and children) use imagry to wrestle with and come to terms with these fears. Medieval maps showed pictures of dragons in the empty, unknown places and everyone knew dragons or other monsters lived on high, uninhabited mountains or in deep, dark forests. We individuals with logical, literate consciousness can still access these images and use them to deal with the fears we face. We have less fear of the physical world - science and a generally more worldly understanding have given us answers to why earthquakes happen, whether summer will return again and how to deal with disease - but more fear of the inner world of our own minds and hearts. Dragons live there, too, in our insecurities, our loneliness and our anxieties about god and man and life.

Autumn is a time when our deep monkey brain is dealing with fears of the physical world. The days are shorter and colder and wetter - will there be enough food and warmth to make it until spring? At the same time, and probably not coincidentally, our feeling and thinking bodies are struggling with our fears of the inner world. We spend more time indoors, with just a few friends or alone. It is dark longer, giving us time and room to think those deep, dark thoughts. Who am I, really? Why am I here? Is it all worth it?

Sara at Love in the Suburbs reminds us that our dragons "deserve our attention again because they’ve been patient—even faithful—waiting for us to remember them." Stories and images of dragons and the heroes (or heroines, as the case may be) can be helpful in battling both sets of fears. Stories of individuals who find courage, with or without supernatural help, can help us find our own courage. Symbolic slaying of dragons through making and eating dragon bread or making and destroying dragon models can help us play out those battles in a safe way. The more I learn about the festivals Rudolph Steiner lectured about the more amazed I am at how deep and holistic his thinking is. This is deep stuff that works on so many levels at once, many of them we don't even understand or comprehend.

The morning of Michaelmas, Sept 29, I woke up dreaming about a dragon and knight mobile. I'm sure I had read about it on some Waldorf blog somewhere, but I couldn't find instructions or photos anywhere. So I made one. The wreath the figures hang from is wound ivy vines and Michael and the dragon are both made from silk tied around some polyester batting. I didn't have any dye so I just colored the dragon's silk green with markers. I pinned some felt pieces together to make the fire, sword and shield and tied it all up with some embroidery floss. It is still hanging above my bed. The dragon of fear and the heavenly hero twirling round and round during this autumn season of growing darkness.

How is the change of weather and daylight this autumn affecting your dragons? How do you use imagery, stories or poetry to pay attention to your dragons? What else do you do when feeling threatened by monsters? Have you ever made dragon bread or other dragon art? What's your favorite dragon story or poem?

Spider Moon

Anansi and the Turtle

One day Anansi the spider picked some very fat and tasty yams from his garden. He baked them with much care and they came out smelling quite delicious. He could not wait to sit down and eat them. Just then there was a knock at his door. It was Turtle, who had been traveling all day and was very tired and hungry.

"Hello, Anansi," said Turtle. "I have been walking for so long, and I smelled the most delicious yams I've ever smelled. Would you be so kind as to share your meal with me?" Anansi could not refuse, as it was the custom in his country to share your meal with visitors at mealtime. But he was not very happy, for Anansi was a little too greedy and wanted the delicious yams all to himself. So Anansi thought to himself and came up with a scheme.

"Please do come in, Turtle. I would be honored to have you as my guest this evening. Sit down, have a chair and help yourself." Turtle came inside and sat down, but just as he reached for a yam, Anansi yelled, "Turtle, don't you know better than to come to the table with dirty hands?"

Turtle looked down at his hands and saw that they were filthy. He had been crawling all day and had not had a chance to clean up. Turtle got up and went to the river to clean his feet. He walked all the way back up to the house and Anansi had already begun to eat.

"I didn't want these tasty yams to get cold, so I had to begin," said Anansi. "But please do join me now, Turtle." Turtle sat down again and reached for a yam, but again Anansi yelled at him. "Turtle, did you not hear me before? It is not polite to come to the table with dirty hands!" He looked down and saw that his clean hands had turned dirty once more, since he had to crawl on them to get back to the house.

So he walked down to the river once more to wash himself off. And when he returned this time, he was careful to walk on the grass so his hands would stay clean. But by the time he sat down at the table, Anansi had finished up the last bit of the tasty yams and not so much as a morsel was left.

Turtle looked at Anansi for a moment and then said, "Thank you for sharing your meal with me. If you ever find yourself near my house, please let me return the favor." And then he slowly walked out the door and continued on his way.

The days went by and Anansi thought more and more of that meal that Turtle had offered. He got more and more interested in a free dinner and finally could not stand it anymore. He set off one day to find Turtle's house. He found Turtle sunning himself on a riverbank just around dinnertime.

Turtle looked up and saw him and said, "Hello, Anansi, have you come to share evening meal with me?" "Oh yes, yes!" said Anansi, who was growing hungrier and hungrier by the minute. Turtle went underwater to his house to set up the dinner table for the two of them. Soon he came back to the bank and said, "Your place is waiting and the food is ready. Please join me, Anansi." And then he dived underwater and began to slowly eat his meal.

Anansi jumped into the water, but could not get down to the bottom of the river. He tried to swim down, but he was so light that he kept popping back up to the surface. He tried diving. He tried belly flops. He tried a running jump, but nothing would help him get down to the river bottom. In the meantime, Turtle was slowly eating his meal.

Anansi was not about to give up a free meal, and was running around wondering what he would do. Finally he had an idea. He started grabbing stones and rocks and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. Now when he jumped into the water he sank right down to the bottom and was able to take his place at the table. The table was so beautiful and full of delicious foods. Anansi could hardly believe how many tasty foods were before him and could not wait to start his meal.

But just as he reached for the first morsel, Turtle stopped eating and spoke. "In my country, we do not wear our jackets to the table." Anansi noticed that Turtle had removed his own jacket before sitting down. Anansi started to remove his jacket, and as soon as it was off of his shoulders, he went zooming back up to the surface and popped out onto the riverbank.

He stuck his head down into the water and saw Turtle slowly enjoying that wonderful banquet.

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This month has been the Spider Moon around here. Has it been where you are? Early in the summer I accidentally knocked my watering bucket into a just about to hatch spider egg sack and found it completely covered in tiny baby spiders. It was like a cross between that scene in Charlotte’s Web when all the babies hatch and fly away and the scene in Harry Potter where the giant spider Aragog’s children chase Ron and Harry out of the Forbidden Forest. It was equal parts cool and creepy. This month, it seems, all those babies have grown up into adult spiders who are making webs and trying to store up enough energy for the winter ahead. One afternoon I walked into the garage and saw the sunlight glittering through all the spider webs strung up and down the room. It was beautiful, creepy, and sad – all that work and so very little gain. There aren’t many bugs in our garage, and their webs will be destroyed the next time someone uses that room. I’ve seen this month spider webs strung up between cars that have only been parked near each other for a couple hours, between trees and fences dozens of feet apart and across doorways that get used multiple times a day. They seem just so frantic to catch food that they will build a web anywhere.

Spiders are fascinating creatures both in science and mythology. They are generally carnivorous arthropods with 8 legs (as opposed to insects’ 6 legs) and they live in just about every terrestrial habitat imaginable. There are approximately 40,000 spider species (as opposed to about 5,400 mammal species) and spiders has the most centralized nervous system of any arthropod with ganglia fused into a mass, like a primitive brain. One of the more amazing things about spiders is that they produce and use spider silk, a protein fiber spun from a gel they secrete. Spiders use silk to form webs, nests, egg sacks and to wrap food. The sheer miraculousness of spider silk is overwhelming to me, despite how annoying it is to run into it seventeen times a day for three weeks.

Our Latin name for spiders, arachnids, is derived from the Greek story about Arachne, the weaver of Lydia. She was such a fine weaver that she attracted the jealousy of the goddess Athena. Athena challenged Arachne to a weaving contest and though Arachne’s weaving was flawless her choice of subjects, a series of 21 scenes of infidelity among the gods and goddesses of Olympia, enraged the goddess. She sentanced Arachne to live with extreme guilt and Arachne soon killed herself. Athena, remembering the woman’s skill at weaving, brought her back to life as a spider.

Anansi is the trickster spider in West African mythology and stories. As the story above shows, Anansi is a very clever character who often uses his skill and intelligence to try to outwit others. His stories originate with the Ashanti people of what is now Ghana but are popular all over West Africa, the Carribean, South America and the United States – everywhere West African culture has spread and survived. Anansi stories are such an important part of Ghanian culture that the word Anansesem, “spider stories”, has come to mean the entire body of folk stories that are told the way Fairy Tales are told in Western European culture.

Anansi and the Turtle is a perfect story for this month, the Nesting Moon in Annette Hinshaw’s calendar. The Nesting Moon energies are about understanding our resources and using them wisely for the good of our community. It is a time of checking the pantry before the big harvest, of putting up food for the long winter ahead and of checking all the details before setting out on a journey. Anansi follows his people’s custom of inviting Turtle to dinner, but his attempt to trick Turtle out of actually enjoying dinner causes Anansi himself to miss out on the larger community’s offerings. We natives of the Nesting Moon, Virgos most of us, can fall into that trap sometimes. Keeping up appearances is important, but fear of not having enough for ourselves.

How are you feeling the Nesting Moon energies this month? What webs are you making to catch which resources? What are you offering up to your community and what are you withholding? How are the spiders doing in your neighborhood? What is the most amazing spider fact you’ve ever learned?

Robin Hood

ROBIN HOOD AND THE RANGER from CHILD'S BALLADS

When Phoebus had melted the sickles of ice,
With a hey down, diddle down dee,
And likewise the mountains of snow,
Bold Robin Hood he would ramble to see,
To frolick abroad with his bow.

He left all his merry men waiting behind,
Whilst through the green vallies he passd;
There did he behold a forester bold,
Who cry'd out, "Friend, whither so fast?"

"I'm going," quoth Robin Hood, "to kill a fat buck,
For me and my merry men all;
Besides, eer I go, I'll have a fat doe,
Or else it shall cost me a fall."

"You'd best have a care," said the forester then,
"For these are his majesty's deer;
Before you shall shoot, the thing I'll dispute,
For I am head-forester here."

"These thirteen long summers," quoth Robin,
"I'm sure, My arrows I here have let fly,
Where freely I range; methinks it is strange,
You should have more power than I.

"This forest," quoth Robin, "I think is my own,
And so are the nimble deer too;
Therefore I declare, and solemnly swear,
I wont be affronted by you."

The forester he had a long quater-staff,
Likewise a broad sword by his side;
Without more ado, he presently drew,
Declaring the truth should be try'd .

Bold Robin Hood had a sword of the best,
Thus, eer he would take any wrong,
His courage was flush, he'd venture a brush,
And thus they fell to it ding dong.

The very first blow that the forester gave,
He made his broad weapon cry twang;
'Twas over the head, he fell down for dead,
O that was a damnable bang!

But Robin he soon did recover himself,
And bravely fell to it again;
The very next stroke their weapons were broke,
Yet never a man there was slain.

At quarter-staff then they resolved to play,
Because they would have t'other bout;
And brave Robin Hood right valiantly stood,
Unwilling he was to give out.

Bold Robin he gave him very hard blows,
The other returnd them as fast;
At every stroke their jackets did smoke,
Three hours the combat did last.

At length in a rage the bold forester grew,
And cudgeld bold Robin so sore
That he could not stand, so shaking his hand,
He said, "Let us freely give oer."

Thou art a brave fellow, I need must confess
I never knew any so good;
Thou 'rt fitting to be a yeomen for me,
And range in the merry green wood."

I'll give thee this ring as a token of love,
For bravely thou'st acted thy part;
That man that can fight, in him I delight,
And love him with all my whole heart.

Then Robin Hood setting his horn to his mouth,
A blast he merrily blows;
His yeomen did hear, and strait did appear,
A hundred, with trusty long bows.

Now Little John came at the head of them all,
Cloathd in a rich mantle of green;
And likewise the rest were gloriously drest,
A delicate sight to be seen."

Lo, these are my yeomen," said Robin Hood,
"And thou shalt be one of the train;
A mantle and bow, a quiver also,
I give them whom I entertain."

The forester willingly enterd the list,
They were such a beautiful sight;
Then with a long bow they shot a fat doe,
And made a rich supper that night.

What singing and dancing was in the green wood,
For joy of another new mate!
With mirth and delight they spent the long night,
And liv'd at a plentiful rate.

The forester neer was so merry before
As then he was with these brave souls,
Who never would fail, in wine, beer or ale,
To take off their cherishing bowls.

Then Robin Hood gave him a mantle of green,
Broad arrows, and a curious long bow;
This done, the next day, so gallant and gay,
He marched them all on a row.

Quoth he, "My brave yeomen, be true to your trust,
And then we may range the woods wide:
"They all did declare, and solemnly swear,
They'd conquer, or die by his side.

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Robin Hood is an perfect archetype for the God we celebrate at this time of year. Our modern understanding of Robin Hood, based on mideval ballads and honed by 19th and 20th century retellings of the story, show him to be a clever and cheerful fellow who works hard to protect those who need protecting and deflate those who need deflating. He is never afraid of a fight or a feast, and does not live in a palace filled with rich trappings but in a cave or a tent in the greenwood. He is a perfect symbol of All That is Manly and Good in the world.

It was actually hard for me to choose a poem to put in this post because there are so many. I was looking for one in which Robin does a noble deed and so thought about Robin Hood and the Three Squires. This is a classic story in which Robin trades clothes with a beggar (sometimes he fights the scurrilous beggar) in order to trick the dirty Sherrif of Nottingham into letting him play hangman to three innocent fellows. Of course Robin is able to blow his horn, summon the Merry Men and ends up hanging the Sherrif instead!. There are others that are hilarous and gentle and bawdy. Some just tickle me pink like Robin Hood and Maid Marian in which Marian dresses up like a page to go find her lost love, Robin and ends up dueling him in the woods before revealing herself and having a lovely feast in Sherwood Forest.

In the end I chose this particular ballad because I love the rhythm of the poem and the story itself is both a classic Robin tale and it makes me chuckle. I highly recommend spending some time checking out the University of Rochester Robin Hood Project for background and annotated text of many ballads. Howard Pyle's classic The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood is avaliable to view online in a number of places, as well as for sale through your favorite bookseller (mine is Powells City of Books). The top illustration here is from Pyle's version, the other two are by N.C. Wyeth.


What stories speak to you about All That is Manly and Good? What is your favorite version of the tale of the bold outlaw and his Merry Men? Do you find yourself humming Oodelallie Oodelallie Golly What a Day, or We're Men, We're Men in Tights (tight tights!) when you think about Robin Hood? What are you doing this summer to celebrate the Manliness in your life, whatever kind of body and gender you may have?

A Flower Story for the Flower Moon

WHY FLOWERS HAVE BRIGHT COLOURS

from the book Overheard in Fairyland by Madge A. Bingham

If you had been in the Garden Beautiful late one moonlight night, you would have heard the Lady Petunia, all dressed in a violet robe, tell such a wonderful story that even the dewdrops nestled among her leaves to listen.

"Once upon a time," she said, "when the world was new, all flowers were white, and none wore the bright coloured dresses we see them wear these days. The queen of the flowers was an exquisite white rose. She grew in the centre of the garden, near the lake, and grouped around her were flowers of every kind—pinks, nasturtiums, poppies, dahlias, lilacs, hyacinths, phlox, daisies, daffodils, and many, many other kinds.

"But all, like the queen, were dressed in pure white.

"They loved the rose queen, because it was she who had taught them all the wonderful secrets that they knew. She had shown them how to send forth their slender roots under the ground for food to eat, and how to carry it up the stalks to the leaves and precious blossoms. She had shown them, too, how to make the wonderful pollen dust of gold, and even how to make the little seed cradles with the wee baby seeds tucked inside.

"But one thing, the greatest thing of all, the rose queen could not tell them; and that was how to ripen the wee seed babies and make them grow fat and round and plump,—as an earth baby does, you know.

"For many days the rose queen bowed her head and thought and wondered over this question. What could she do? It would be too bad if the baby seeds from none of the plants ever ripened or grew any larger, for not even a little seed likes always to be a baby. Then too, without well-ripened seed, soon there would be no flowers blooming in the Garden Beautiful—because there would be no seeds to plant.

"So, you see, that was enough to make the rose queen sorrowful, and for nights and days she thought or dreamed of nothing else.

"At last she said, one day, to a little breeze fairy who was softly fanning her cheeks: 'Pretty breeze fairy, in all of your travels, have you heard of no one who knows how flowers may ripen their seeds, and make them grow plump and round?'

" 'I know how trees ripen their seeds, replied the little breeze fairy.'They exchange their golden pollen dust with one another. I have often helped the wind blow it from one tree to another.

" 'Perhaps that is the way flowers should ripen their seed babies, too. I would help you if I could, but when the wind blows it is so rough and strong that I feel sure it would blow the dainty flower-cups all to pieces.

" 'Why do you not ask the bees to help you do this or the moths and butterflies? They would be the very ones to help you out of your trouble, and carry the pollen dust to and fro.'

"Now the rose queen had often seen the bees and butterflies flitting by the garden; but they never came near any of the flowers. So how could she ask any of them to carry the golden pollen dust from flower to flower?

" 'I must get a message to these bees and butterflies somehow,' said the queen to herself. 'How shall I do it?' And then, the very next moment, a smile played over her beautiful face and she said softly: 'Oh, now I know what we can do! I suppose bees and butterflies are like the earth-children and like good things to eat. 'I will tell the flowers about my plan in the morning, and we will all make sweet nectar juice and tuck it away, down in our flower cups, and then the bees and butterflies will be sure to come to us for a taste. It is then I will ask them to help us exchange our golden pollen dust with one another—roses with roses, violets with violets, pinks with pinks,—that is the way.'

"And so the rose queen fell asleep, happy in her new-made plan, because she knew how happy it would make the flowers next day when they heard that she had at last thought of a way to make their seed babies ripen and grow.

"And, indeed, they were very happy when they heard about it, and they began at once, and worked from early morning until night, storing away delicious nectar juice for their visitors, the bees and butterflies, whom they were expecting very soon.

"But alas! though the nectar juice was of the sweetest and very best, none of the bees or the dainty butterflies stopped to take even a sip, and because of this the beautiful rose queen was more sorrowful than ever, and the flowers drooped low over the cradles where the young seed babies lay sleeping, sick and pale.

"It seemed that they would have to die after all, since neither the bees nor butterflies would come to help them exchange their golden pollen dust, and this alone was all that could possibly save their lives. Surely something must be done, or very soon the Garden Beautiful would be without its lovely flowers, since there would be no more seeds to grow up in place of the flowers that withered.

" 'I’ll tell you,' said the little breeze, who lingered again by the side of the rose queen. 'Why do you not put out signal flags of red and blue and other bright colours? All of your flowers in the Garden Beautiful are dressed in white, and perhaps bees and butterflies cannot see white. Now if you will put out brightly-coloured signal flags, I am sure the bees and butterflies will come, because they like bright colours, and when they find out that you have made sweet nectar juice for them they will be only too glad to keep on coming. Try it,' laughed the little breeze, 'and while the bees and butterflies are busy sipping nectar juice, the flowers can be sprinkling golden pollen dust over their bodies and wings so they will be sure to leave some with every new flower they call on.

'"The fair rose queen laughed merrily with the little breeze, as he talked, and then she said: 'But wait; before you go, tell me, pray, where I am to get these brightly-coloured signal flags you speak of? I have none.'

" 'Oh, the sunbeam fairies can bring you every colour of the rainbow,—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet,' replied the mischievous little breeze, tickling her leaves into fresh laughter as he flew away.

"Then the happy rose queen called quickly to a sunbeam fairy who danced that way. 'Come and help me, shining fairy of the sky,' she said. ' Bring to me, I pray thee, many brightly-coloured flags. I would have them of the lovely rainbow colours, so beautiful to look upon.'

" 'Flags?' replied the shining sunbeam fairy, pausing in his dance. 'I have no flags, fair queen, but I can bring you something better—dresses in all the rainbow colours, bright and beautiful to look upon.'

"So away he hastened to the palace of the sun, leaving the dear rose queen very happy, and when he returned there came with him many, many tiny sunbeam fairies, each one heavily laden, and oh, the beautiful, beautiful dresses they brought with them! Soon all the flowers had changed their robes of spotless white for garments of the brightest rainbow hues—of blue and red and violet and orange and their tints and shades.

"Very soon there was a wonderful change in the Garden Beautiful and the rose queen's cheeks flushed a delicate pink when she bowed her head in thanks to the kind little sunbeam fairies. And it really happened just as the little breeze fairy said it would. Very soon the bees and butterflies caught sight of the Garden Beautiful, decked out in its wonderful new colours, and over the old wall they flew in troops and visited every flower. Best of all, they liked the nectar juice so much that they came again and again, and, fluttering here and there, they carried with them the golden pollen dust which was needed so much to help the seed babies grow.

"So, day by day, the flowers worked to keep a store of nectar juice, and day by day the bees and butterflies kept coming, until by and by the seed babies were ripe and plump and strong, and the fair rose queen knew the Garden Beautiful would remain as it had been—fresh and beautiful every year.

"And now," said the Lady Petunia, "my story is ended, and you know why it is that the flowers wear bright-coloured dresses.

"True, a few of them still wear white in memory of the fair rose queen, but by their perfume the bees and butterflies have learned that they keep sweet nectar juice for their friends and visit them just the same.

"Some of these white flowers bloom only at night when the bees and butterflies have gone to bed. But the little gray moths that flit about in the starlight know how sweet they smell, and visit them often—sipping their nectar and carrying the golden pollen dust from flower to flower."