The new moon is on schedule to coincide with the time when old lovers who have crossed over reach out to us.
Mother nature, however, is due to send an electrical storm at the same time. Most communications with these old lovers is accomplished through electricity, so it will be difficult to know for sure what is being said.
That’s OK. As with most mothers, Mother Nature knows what love is. She has no interest in eavesdropping or redirecting messages. Sometimes I hear from a spirit who left his wife behind, and that’s fine with me. He can see her at the next 11:11.
The Fairy Godmother was able to squeeze all her charms and talents into 240 square feet, with plenty of room for her tiny charges to come and go as desired. There was a fire extinguisher and candles and cauldrons with athames both large and small, which is relative in a tiny house with fairy visitors.
The house sat on the edge of reality near figment, where the veil was thinnest under all phases of the moon. At full capacity, it still weighed 17,040 pounds, because the fairies visited only at night, and were therefore naked. When these visitors left, they would take all evidence that they had ever been there. There were clues, but a sharp eye was needed because they were bubble rider sprites; the smallest of the fae, yet the most powerful.
It is important to note that The Fairy Godmother is not of the fae, nor is she a witch. Most days she is an ordinary human who reheats her coffee in the microwave and forgets where she left it. She wears neither wings nor pointy hat. She wears costumes and uniforms above red shoes. In public she wears sneakers with t-shirts from Walmart.
The Fairy Godmother never cackles or talks like a baby. She is just as likely to be talking to a human as a fairy. This is the reason she is sometimes considered to have gone mad.
But she is wise. Wherever her life has shrunk in reality, it has expanded across the veil. She sees the fairies and caresses the stars.
She looked exactly like a tiny Pippi Longstocking, complete with striped tights, haphazard braids, and red shoes with buckles and room in the toes to carry her treasures.
Nobody knew why she ended up along the Mohawk trail or how long she had lived there, but they assumed she had interacted with adult humans at some point in her life, because she used a lot of English words – not always in the usual fashion. She communicated in one way or another with stars and bees and raccoons and fairies.
If she had a name, it was apparently Awbin Aire and so we will call her Binny, as her friends do. She has always been eight years old.
The grown-ups think Binny is an imaginary friend or local legend, and although the children speak matter-of-factly about her, no adult has actually laid eyes on her. They speculate that she has wandered west from Salem, through Ayer and Auburn, and that she was probably baptized Mary Elizabeth, but doesn’t know it. They are all aware that most of the stories about her occur around May Day and Halloween.
Binny naps at noontime and travels at night. Every so often when the day first opens its eyes, Binny steps into a creek and washes her Auburn Hair.
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.
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.