Yackety-Yak, Don’t Come Back (unscheduling)

by chaerie-faerie,

The yaks arrived three weeks late to Cricket of the Dale‘s red barn. It seems, they report, that a number of welcome obstacles slowed their already laconic pace.

Both yaks were born in Tibet and thus, practice Tibetan Yakhism. Each night, after steadily plodding up a steep mountain grade, pausing only to nip at some lavender buds growing by trailside, they unshackled themselves from heavy harnesses and meditated. Yes. Meditated. Often, under the clear dark skies of Hyperborea, decorated with stars as numerous as buds on jasmine, they forgot their mission and just sat.

To picture a yak meditating, you  must suspend your own sense of logic and  architecture. Close your eyes, look over at your pile of sugar which must be delivered to the young fillies and colts under the tutelage of Cricket of the Dale, and say to yourself, ” Another day. It will get there when it gets there.”

Bravo. You’ve taken the first step.

A yak sits on its back haunches in a comfortable place, preferably on a grassy tuft. Its powerful front legs, form one side of this hairy triangle. Its eyes are closed, allowing the viewer to admire the yak’s long eyelashes that protect its rather large brown eyes. Out the unctuous nostrils comes a visible breath. Like a powerful steam engine, each yak breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, creating a geyser of steam and breath.

This accidental act of forgetting one’s mission and just “going with the flow” of life provides nourishment.

Several days later, they reported, they woke from their meditation and traveled down into the grassy dale, delivering two tons of sweet sugar cubes.

No Worries! (calm)

by chaerie-faerie

On my way out of the capital of Hyperborea, Darlingtown, I flew to the small city of Crystal, population 750. The yaks will not arrive at Cricket of the Dale’s red barn until June 5, so why not take a detour and enjoy life?

Crystal is the home to more active seniors than any other town in Hyperborea.

On memorable evenings, when the sky darkens to a cerulean blue (a time when most older folks in the New World are tucking themselves into bed after taking their blood pressure and cholesterol pills), people over 75 are just still going strong, expecting why….why… why at least another six hours of stimulating activity.

Part of their secret to such a fearless and enthusiastic response to the life experience  is that there are no worries in Hyperborea.

I know what you must be thinking. Well, goody for them! They live in an idyllic space free of taxes, colonoscopies, and off-shore drilling, free of skunks, rattlesnakes, and mushy bananas. Free of veterinary bills, root canals, and hard water. Free of allergies, dust, and dog hair. Free of automated answering services.

It’s interesting.

One more thing. In Crystal, everyone’s mind is clear. No momentary confusion or forgetfulness. Crystalites play bridge until they are 120 years old. They know exactly what they did yesterday. They do not repeat themselves to family members, who nod sympathetically as if the story they are being told is brand new like the inspiring moment of birth.

I’m flying overhead.  

I see that everyone is indoors playing Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly, and Clue.

I see that everyone is comfortable just being wherever they are.

I see that even though they could trip on a cobblestone and strain a ligament or be overtaken by a mudslide (should climate change force the snow in the mountains to melt), they remain calm and enjoy their days.

I see that you have a lot to learn.

That’s OK. If you are reading this, you still have time.

Cricket of the Dale (Movement)

by chaerie-faerie

Something must be said at this juncture about Cricket of the Dale.

If generosity of the spirit is one of the highest states of consciousness, then Cricket of the Dale moves through her daily life in a most enlightened way. She often enters  our vision like a brilliant rainbow after a dark downpour.

A good horse, after all, can be hard to find.

The product of perfect equine genetics–the daughter of a smart and compassionate dam, Whirlybird, and a powerful athletic sire, Night’s Approach–Cricket of the Dale was born to be a star (and understand them).

Perhaps you are wondering (it’s important not to lose your sense of wonder) what she looks like. Are you? I knew it. So let me provide an image for that sweet part of your mind which yearns to believe.

She is black and petite with a long full tail, so long it touches the ground.

Four white socks accentuate her sturdy legs.

Up her soft nose, runs a thick white blaze, partly obscured by a forelock as full as her tail.

One blue eye (on her right side) and one brown eye (on her left side) reveal her dual nature. You see, Cricket of the Dale is a mystic. All children who come to visit her in the red barn, as well as the lucky colts and fillies studying there, recognize the glorious mysteries she reveals, even if they have trouble seeing them.

We faeries see all, so let me alert you to the importance of movement.

All horses whose hooves strike the Hyperborean turf do so in a deliberate cadence, like the masters of the waltz. Cricket of the Dale moves in a perpetual gait that we faeries call the Four-Step, a mix of a peppery trot and a rhythmic canter.

Have you ever been around someone or something whose movement makes you feel alive?

Sure you have. Try to remember when and where you were.

Were you lingering by the fence, gazing at the innocence of a spring lamb following her mother?

Were you sipping an espresso on a Sunday morning in Venice, watching a young handsome couple pushing a stroller?  Did your heart settle then?

Were you at the lake, listening to the pushy Canadian geese and mallards honk at each other?

Perhaps you were on a forest hike when you and a squirrel came upon one another?

Well, I must return with the sugar to the red barn. The purple satin bags of sugar cubes have been packed and shipped by three lovely Hawaiian transplants who left Kona years ago for Hyperborea. It will take the yaks (from Tibet) several days to reach Cricket of the Dale and her brood in the barn.

Until it arrives ( I shall report the glee), notice what will settle your heart.

A Hyperborean Wonder (Wonder)

by chaerie-faerie

While in town, I have decided to stop in and see the Mayor, Princess Maya, descendant of King Inka and Queen Soriono, original people of Mesoamerica. How they migrated to Hyperborea still confounds anthropologists, but we faeries know the whole story.

It seems that long ago in the Beni in Bolivia, the last child of an industrious couple–the Ibibates–wandered away from her home when she should have been tending the sheep.

This last child’s name was Soriono, named after an ancient people with a highly developed civilization, one that European historians left out of the history books. Soriono climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the rain forest, a mahogany, and perched (along with a lovely blue and yellow parrot named Henry) on the uppermost branch, still shaded by a canopy of leaves.

“Look Henry, do you see the clouds in the North?” she asked the parrot who was busy preening his wings.

“Of course I do, Soriono. My grandfather told me the clouds point the way to a land where no one is bored, ” Henry revealed proudly before resuming  his grooming.

“Well, I am bored all the time, tending to my chores, worrying about my family, and repeating the same tasks over and over each day after day and week after week and month after month and year after year.

“Such a litany of complaint!” observed the blue parrot and he flew off.

Soriono was left on the top of the mahogany tree.

She stared longingly at the clouds, signposts to a land where curiosity overshadowed all boredom.

And then, she lost her balance.

During the fall, instead of crashing into mahogany branches, a cool wind with gentle hands swaddled her with a blanket of snow and delivered her to a childless couple in Hyperborea.

There, Soriono lived a life of curiosity, eventually marrying Inka, a regal man who liked to laugh.

There. Now you have part of the grand story.

Mayor Princess Maya greeted me with her usual aplomb. I noticed a purple feather in her pink felt cap. Oh my, what a sight. Just my color palette, I thought.

What brings you in to town?” asked the mayor.

“I’ve been in the capitol this morning to send sugar back to Cricket of the Dale, for all the little ones in the red barn, ” I shared.

“How nice of you to stop by, my sweet chaerie-faerie. I’m wondering if all that sugar is good for their teeth. Shouldn’t  Cricket of the Dale spend more time with the fillies and the colts developing their sense of wonder?” the mayor asked.

Little Scarlett waiting for her sugar

“I wonder if you are correct,” I wondered.

Darlingtown, Hyperborea (Sugar)

by chaerie-faerie

The Hyperborean capitol is gorgeous this time of year.

Buddhist prayer flags stand out stiff in the brisk wind that keeps our land clear and clean. On every corner, from tall silver posts, hang baskets of cascading lavender flowers. Lambs and their mothers travel down from the hillsides and group in the streets, providing children with lovable hugs. Outside each little store a brass drinking bowl waits for thirsty dogs.

The Hyperborean capital, Darlingtown, lies three miles east of Moor and five miles south of Crystal. It was founded thousands of years ago by Greek nomads, fleeing Know-It-Alls in the south. Ancient Athens bulged with them.

No Know-It-Alls live in Hyperborea. But then again, no shrinking violets live here either.

All men and women here share that perfect blend of confidence and humility. I understand from my New World friends across the seas that such a union of personality is as rare as a unicorn. Not here in Hyperborea.

Yesterday, I flew into town from my home in the foothills, far from a comfy branch where, in my dreams, memories become reality.

I came into town at the behest of Cricket of the Dale, daughter of  the dam Whirlybird by the sire Night’s Approach. (It should be noted that Night’s Approach won the Hyperborean Derby last spring in a track setting record of 2 minutes 32 seconds, nosing the favorite at the finish line. ) He is a magnificent horse known to all of us faeries as Charlie.

Cricket of the Dale lives in a red barn a short distance from my tree. She’s busy these days, tending unselfishly to young fillies and colts whose mothers are on the mandatory vacations that all mothers must take three times a year.

This morning before the sun came up, from my tree I heard  the sound of disappointment coming from the barn. What? You say the sound of disappointment? In a perfect land like ours?

Yes!

And what does the sound of disappointment make?

In Hyperborea the sound is silent to human ears but to those of us from another realm, the sound is a soft nickering, where the breath blows out through velvet nostrils.

It is a call for sugar.

And so here I am in Darlingtown to send some sugar back to the barn for the little ones.

The hot bath (Relaxation)

by chaerie-faerie

A nightly ritual, sure to relax

the neck and the back and the feet

to the max.

Open the spigot and turn it to hot,

darken the room, tiny and caught

in the moment of steamy escape.

Lavender bubbles invite you: step in!

But first open the window and listen to Boreas

howling and rushing, caressing

(how glorious)

Take off your clothes, step in and lie still,

The hot water, the candle, the wind

all will

Remind you to pause and consider your day,

Consider the mystery of what went your way,

And what did not.

Before you know it, deep in the heat

with soaps and bubbles, in your steamy retreat,

You will feel a relief from the mind-bending thoughts

of taxes and lapses, mixed up with that wrought

of daily concerns.

Tonight before bed,

Crawl into the heat

of a misty lavender lovely retreat.

Meditaetion (Meditation)

by chaerie-faerie

The power of breath

I want you to come up to my branch and sit down next to me. Come on, you can do it.

There. Oh, don’t worry about Hercules. He’s full of smiles this morning.

I’m going to teach you to breathe. Yes? Oh I see. You’ve bought many tapes and disks and none of them work. You’re distracted when you try to notice your breath?

Here in Hyperborea, all of us–from cats to faeries, from bears to people–breathe slowly, even when something startles us. Since birth,we’ve been practicing this art of breathing– a life-preserving necessity  passed down by our elders.

It’s windy here in Hyperborea. Air swirls in large ovals, lifting the most aromatic pieces of flowers and herbs into the ecliptic, gently infusing rosemary, basil, and thyme for all to smell.  Once you have breathed in this mixture, you feel you must travel to the baker’s ovens and order a piece of garlic bread to accompany the air. Garlic bread and air…ahhhhhh.

Today, on my branch you are seated comfortably, in your loose-fitting cotton tunic. You do not have on tight underwear. (Tight underwear is not allowed in Hyperborea…and if truth be told, most of us do not wear it at all because it is so constricting). Constriction hinders relaxed breathing.

Close your eyes. No, you will not fall off the branch. Begin the process of trusting whatever you believe in. In my case, I think about dragonflies.

Ana's dragonfly

Inhale. Hold it in.

Exhale. Release.

Try it again.

Very nice.

Let’s take this time on the branch just for you.

Great Aunt Taerie (Exercise)

I'm flying through the mist

by chaerie-faerie

I awoke this morning and flew away from the tabby Hercules  and straight to the nectar bar.

There, occupying the last bar stool on the far right, sat my Great Aunt Taerie, sister to my Aunt Maerie. To her I always go for precise advice.

“I’m sympathetic to my friends in the South,” I hummed.

“They don’t get enough exercise,” I continued.

“Oh my, Chaerie, why would you be so concerned about them here in Hyperborea where tabby cats leap from birch branch to birch branch and faeries fly freely, always ending their joyous days by sleeping with their memories? “

(It must be said at this point in the story that Great Aunt Taerie has never left Hyperborea, so has no understanding of other places outside of our realm. You might observe that she has led a sheltered life.)

“I know that beating my wings double-time and whirling around a Gerber Daisy like a top make me feel so alive,” I reiterated.

Great Aunt Taerie finished her honey-nectar and then sat back on the pink velvet bar stool, staring deeply into my eyes.

“Well then, my frenetic little niece. Fly south as fast as your wings will carry you. Take a little overcoat because, I hear, a ferocious spring storm commandeered by Boreas himself is drenching the land. Remind all of your friends from the United States, Canada, Great Britain, the Czech Republic, and Australia to get out today–no matter what the weather–and go for a walk.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded in agreement.  My plans took shape.

I’m on my way to join you in your walk. Will you wait for me?

Up in the tree with our memories (Memory)

by chaerie-faerie

Tonight in a tall birch tree, I snuggled with my memories. They elbowed me, keeping me from sleep.

On the other branch, slept a large tabby cat named Hercules.

His breathing lulled me into a restful state.

In the middle of the night, I awakened to a memory speaking to me.

“Hello?” I uttered.

“Is it you?” the memory replied. ( I furtively glanced sideways to see what a memory looked like and was most surprised to see not a shadow but a sentient being.)

“Let me get this straight,” I clarified, “Are you a memory or reality?”

“Does it matter?” the memory cooed, nestling close to my breast.

“No, it doesn’t,” I replied.

Hercules looked over at the ten of us and nodded approvingly.

The night wore on, peacefully.

The Hyperborean Flag

by chaerie-faerie

Paul turned 80 on March 15, 2011.

Reaching the ripe age of 80 and still being so alive and vital (like Paul) is the work of the Chief Faerie, one who understands youth and approach, philosophy and soup. When the Chief Faerie winks, young hearts in older bodies well up in hopeful anticipation of the next moment.

The word Hope is on the Hyperborean flag, a banner of blue, purple, and orange stripes.

Paul’s ancestors on his Greek side had a little cottage up on the north side of Hyperborea. We used to fly over the roof and listen to the Greek music and rich conversation coming from within.

Always Paul’s family talked of the future and what they were going to DO. Not that they weren’t concerned with the NOW, mind you.

Today, while I was admiring my wings’ shimmery reflections in the Wishing Pond, I saw a good soul on its way to the Great Beyond. Though in a hurry, it stopped mid-flight and shrugged at me. I shrugged back.

<shrug>

That’s right. We don’t really know, but your next experience will be a delightful mystery.

Oh hello Joe! All’s well that ends well.

And a very Happy Birthday to Paul.