It’s a Small World After All

We don’t really lose an hour when Daylight Savings Time begins; we lend it to the fairy sprites who will use that sliver of time to prepare for spring. The yearlings will need new wings and the older sprites will hem each other’s skirts. Cribs will be refreshed for the newborns, and the oldest ones will prepare the larger areas for the Equinox.

Do not begrudge them this time they borrow from us. They pay us back in beauty beyond our current ability to notice.


While the fairies sleep through the winter, Mother Moon watches over all our dreams.

astrology astronomy beautiful black
Photo by Sebastian Voortman on

Deep in the woods or high on a mountaintop, in the middle of the ocean or the middle of a meadow, the oldest of the witches perform their moon dances in cloaks of red and white and black and gray.  At the moment of the moon’s fullest, the cloaks are thrown off, and the sweat turns to ice as the wisdom of the ages is frozen in time.

The crones know everything.  They know that the magick is always getting stronger.  There is no sadness in the loss of youth, because the power of age is greater than the fluttering of old.  Nothing is taken away with the passage of time.   Even the moon dance gets easier.

It falls upon Mother Moon and her crones to educate the younger ones, who will never believe that being old is better than being young, until they reach this place where the old witches are now, and the crones can’t blame them for their youth, having enjoyed that place immensely.

As the cloaks are returned to the icy bodies after the dance, the ice melts into tears for the losses that are a necessary piece of eventual wisdom.  At each full moon, the body is cleansed and renewed, ready to experience all that has happened in the past and all that will happen in the future.

The beauty of the universe lies within the folds of the wrinkles.



Bitter Moon Behind Clouds

We have to really look hard to see what’s good about the darkness. We imagine that it is a place of death and despair, but it exists for a greater purpose than to simply afford us an appreciation of the promised light. The shortest day, the Solstice, is celebrated as the longest night; but why?

Babies know. So do bears. Trees and flowers. Vacationers and dreamers. Pot roasts and zen masters. Run-on sentences. Busy intersections.

The longest night is a blessing. It is our chance to hold space for ourselves while the world takes back its control from us.

Humans are uniquely averse to this pause in activity, and we must be forced to exist for a few moments without obvious purpose or plan. Here in the stillness is where world peace is born, where each of us stops trying so hard and doing it all wrong. This is where the stars speak to us about who we really are and what we are called upon to offer the world.

We do not need to do anything at all during the time of darkness but shut up and listen to our Self.


Back at the Bubble Rider Academy, Cherish the first alternate had worked her way up to valedictorian, and it had been a well deserved honor for her to lead the class on its first mission, and many of the others.

Shadow, however, had never excelled in quizzes or relays, never raised her hand, never had an essay returned with a gold star or a smiley face, and was never applauded by classmates or instructors. She had not been exposed to a single tribulation serious enough to compel her to overcome it.

As curious as it may seem to us, this circumstance left her feeling undeserving of any admiration or attention. Shadow didn’t even feel worthy of discussing this with anyone. She led a completely adequate life as a team player, neither scoring a point nor making a mistake.

In the autumn when Mother Nature was napping, Cherish pulled Shadow aside for a gentle conversation. By the time the last leaf had fallen, Cherish had pointed out a thousand tiny adversities that had been resolved with a more quiet grace than any of her classmates had ever attempted.

Shadow stepped into the light of her personal destiny. She found that one exquisite experience which she now knew she deserved, and with complete confidence she grabbed that first taste of perfection.

It was more delicious than any future bite could ever hope to be.

The Flood Fairies – Book Three

Just when we thought the bubble riders had gone to sleep until spring, some unusual activity was observed around the Accomac and the tomb of the Confederate soldier. As if it were Christmas Eve, the elves and gnomes and fairies simply could not fall asleep.

The ghosts at the Accomac were packing up their linens and headed for Jackson House further south. There was nobody to scare at The Accomac any more, and nobody was available to listen.

Somebody however, continued to try to connect with me through the internet. And I wasn’t alone. It is simply not normal for a truck to get up on its hind legs and howl at the moon. We must be clear, however, that hauntings are not always ghostly. Many non-human spirits become disembodied wanderers as well.

Ghosts didn’t disrupt the workers trying to put the land back together in the area. They might have had some responsibility for the ultimate closing of the restaurant, but spirits of another kind did the rest. Brownies, sprites, fairies, gnomes, pixies, animal familiars and maybe even witches – whether at work or play – reshuffled and blended the earth in that area for purposes we mere mortals can only guess at.

I don’t know what they want with me, or why they keep using Facebook, but when the new year comes around, I may just go out there and find a Winter Wonderland.

Barsy: A Year Later

(In the poetic words of Kahlil Gibran, “I care about your happiness just as you care about mine. I could not be at peace if you were not.”)

In memory of a smile:

After the clouds of grief finally lifted, the faeries stood like toy soldiers along a parade route. Their shadows were missing. Their wings were drooped in the heavy air. The sun was gone and the playground was soggy. None of them had been trained for this, but they stood on their tiny tiptoes in order to appear tall and strong for the event in which they found themselves participating.

The body of their Beloved was carried slowly past them on a flat wooden raft. They could hardly recognize him. There was no sunlight radiating from his face. There was no joy. It was now an ordinary face like so many others. A Zoloft face. Yet the crowd was not in mourning at all. They cheered and laughed and threw rice and rose petals toward the raft as it passed slowly by. The faeries had long since learned to be silent, because their giggles had always seemed to interfere with the humans all around them. They had slowly changed in color from the green of new grass, to the oranges of autumn, and finally to the brown that made them look like their brownie cousins going trick-or-treating.

Long after the crowd dispersed, the faeries returned to the playground for a private moment of sadness. The sun would never come out to dry the earth again. They no longer had a purpose here. But they could not leave their Beloved. As they gazed at a bonfire which was more like a funeral pyre to them, their wings began to dry just enough to allow them to hover over the flames. One by one, they each shed a tear for the perfection that was now gone forever. The tears caused the fire to crackle and spark. It was the night of the Hunters Full Moon, and in the presence of all the witches and goddesses that had ever been conjured, each little faerie was lifted to the sky to become a sparkly star, ever at watch over her Beloved, but never to play again.

The Flood Fairies


Near a recently flooded haunted inn called The Accomac, there was a recent disturbance involving some mud fairies. I have trouble believing that they were outright mean, but at least part of this story can be verified, so it must be at least partially true.

It all started with a soldier who died before his young lady back home had a chance to accept his proposal. His name was Stuart Cannabis, and fortune was only good to him once – the day he became The Unknown Soldier instead of poor old Stuey Cannabis.

Stuart died in his sleep in an apparent effort to avoid being shot at Gettysburg the following week. Upon his chest were a dozen mournful bubble rider fairies who would not leave him, even when some Union soldiers buried him where he was found. He is still there, sleeping.

For a time, Stuart Cannabis and his fairy sprites just lay there dreaming of the woman back home. The world had gotten used to knowing him as “C. S. A. Unknown”, and life went on and on. A curious but simpleminded son of the local ferry runner would sometimes visit. Junior was certain that there was something going on under the grass, because whenever he visited the grave, he would have wild dreams that night. This went on for several years as he and his father would travel across the river and back. The dreams carried him all the way through adolescence, until he could no longer be sure he was awake or asleep.

This is where the mud fairies enter the story, because there is no other explanation for what happened next. John D. Coyle, Jr. got it into his head that he should marry young Emily Myers and they would live happily ever after. In his dreams they would behave as honeymooners, with no responsibilities other than to tend to one another. Poor Emily Myers had no dreams at all, let alone the romantic and erotic ones described by Johnnie Coyle. And she told him so. Twice. This proved to be the end of her, and the end of Johnnie’s dream, for when she laughed at him for saying he saw fairy sprites on bubbles floating in the air, he shot her dead and she stopped laughing.

The fairies, who had stayed with their soldier to the end, would stand by Johnnie all through both of his trials and his eventual hanging. The plea was insanity, but he knew the dirty little fairies were real.

A river separates the burial sights of Emily in Marietta and Johnnie in Accomac, but they continue to argue at Coyle’s Ferry and she still can’t see any fairies, and Johnnie still can’t not.

I know this tale is true because during the recent flash floods, those mud fairies broke into my Facebook account and shut it down. They were in Hallam, a place I have never set foot. But I have been known to send my own bubble riders there on many occasions, and they see everything.