The first moon of the year waxes!
Hello again my fellow music lovers, faeries, friends and family ~
We're all here on the internet again! ;)
I'm so grateful we get to connect and share through these fantastical instruments ~
Of course, we all know that such devices can keep us apart as well.
Not only from each other, but from our true selves, our purpose, and our sovereignty.
Today I'd like to share another vignette of my journey toward my true self, my purpose, and sovereignty. Away from the rectangles, away from the light-bulbs;
let's go there now...
Compassion,
~ <3 Trolli <3 ~
”Smooth singing sunshine. Smooth, singing sunshine. Wrap your blanket round me. Wrap your blanket, round me. Round me, my love.”
-Robbie Basho
No rickety bridge nor special stepping stones were placed for crossing the creek that flowed through the Fifteen Deer Wood. This was one of many things that made the warmer seasons so lovely! Without need of shoes, crossing the creek meant you didn't have to deal with trying to put socks back on wet feet!
One late summer's evening I made such a crossing at the creek bend that was overlooked by a great tree of rippling bark, peering down at the orange rocks bedded beneath the shallow stream. A dirt cliff of about 10 feet stooped on the north side of the bend, and with the deciduous giant spreading high over the whole scene, a wide, wonderful and watery forest glade was bequeathed unto this world. At this time of year, and in the deep golden evening, the sun's rays were carried into the glade by the shimmering waters, dappling the earthen vessel in rising liquid light. A scene fit for a Faery Queen.
Though this place of green-gold, grown from rock and mud, was at it's height of beauty, I had another destination in my heart not far away. On the south side of the stony creek to which I had just crossed, the land heaved up, up and up! Any land traveling from here would have to be up the hill. There was a bright little pathway of clay, dirt and stones that climbed up the steepest part of the hill.
As I clambered up it, the spiny leaves of underbrush clawing playfully at my sides, my imagination traveled to one of its favorite returns.
~
The path up ahead meandered East-West through a highland of thousands of small trees of a similar deciduous type. An ornate carpet woven of millions of brown, green, and yellowing leaves lay covering the roots throughout the landscape. As within most of the Fifteen Deer Wood, only a rare few walked this path, most of them four-legged creatures.
Yet just several steps off the path to the north, somewhere amidst this widespread grove, stood a tiny shack, its boarding of various types and ages of wood. The stout, humble door opened from the right side, and a window was fixed open facing the path. Behind the shack was a little camp; cookfire, cauldron, lean-to, simple wooden stool, tanning rack, rain barrel, and a wooden staff leaning up against an old stump. Inside the shack, a person stood serenely gazing at the breathing, forking branches across the sky. They were aged but not old, wearing simple clothing of green and brown to blend in with their home in the Fifteen Deer Wood. Tall, yet standing hunched from their life of fishing, trapping, and crafting. Pretty, yet creased and weathered by the elements, and without knowledge of their appearance.
The distinct smell of just ready fish hung over the fire wafted to the woodlander's nose.
“Ee-hee, my chubbies! You may be small, so I'll eat you all!” crooned the cook, waddling back over to the stone-encircled fire. Fallen leaves hopped around in a cool gust of wind.
“Chubs” are a creature that live in the creeks of the region. Basically minnows, but grown to the size of small fish. Most humans use chubs as bait for larger fish, however journeying the Fifteen Deer Wood, the creek held precious few fish larger than chubs. Thus was our friend here's usual summer fare, for furry lovelies were a sad affair to kill, and necessary to salt, dry, and save for the deep winter.
The cooked chubs were crunched down with walnuts and mulberries. Though it was dangerous beyond the woodland's edge, mulberries and walnuts grew aplenty, and were safely enough gathered at night.
...Scuff, crunch, and pad, footsteps slowly made a crescendo into the woodland's ambling evening ambiance. A rare traveler trod this trail today!
The deep woodland shopkeep dashed back up into their shack and readied their stores. It had been seven years since the last human came this way. Dusting, polishing, pouring, and tinkering, they made themselves busy but not appearing too much so!
~
Much to the shopkeep's dismay, however, the footsteps turned and took the path south rather than east past their shack.
“Sorry old biddy” I thought, “but I have other friends to see this eve”.
The south-turning path I followed here led shortly by the leaf-carpeted highland grove. The trees grew wider apart, and with twisting, further reaching branches. Still receiving gusts of air from the creek valley now to the West below, I cherished the breaths suffused with the sweet smell of pure mud and dry, yet still living leaves.
Gentle and unhurried chirruping wafted over from a grassy grove ahead, welcoming me to my destination.
A dilapidated old fence fashioned purely of wood hung loosely to its standing position, forming a soft barrier at the north and west edge of a small grassland, only perhaps thirty paces across. These grasses were mostly bright brown and smooth to the touch, even in summer. A few small, prickly trees stood here, housing happy families of little brown birds. To the south and east, the trees grew large and thick in foliage, yawning in curious shadows about this brown beauty of a glade. I sat down to rest against the wood of a sole fence post. The fluffy waves of grass blown by that fresh western breeze that billowed round me were a suture to the wounds of the world beyond these woods.
The path continued south through those darkening trees, though I had never wandered that way. I got the sense, perhaps from my knowledge of the land, or from a car's rumble carried on the wind, that the woodlands might end soon down that way. This was not something I wished to discover.
Or perhaps, I could tell that this was the edge of the Fifteen Deer Wood because the old fence told me so. Something about that humble old wood, untarnished by nail or wire, spoke of peace past the end of its duty, yet warning of what it used to contain.
Yet another evening I was blessed by the caress
of peeping birdies amidst a blanket of gold grasses,
and the open handed touch of a kindly old fence
Together at the edge of a hidden jewel's eye
Friends beyond language
Faery light the setting sun divined
Thanks for reading! <3
Please feel free to leave a comment ~
I enjoy sharing these writings, but of course music is my true area of study.
With 25 years of devoted practice, I can heartily recommend,
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