This Fairytale World of Mine

"The realm of fairy-story is wide and deep and high and filled with many things: all manner of beasts and birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted; beauty that is an enchantment, and an ever-present peril; both joy and sorrow as sharp as swords. " - J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories

 

"She lived happily in her nest, standing at the edge in the sunset looking upon the beautiful world," Little Wildrose, Artist Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there lived a girl-child, very young and very eager. She lived in a little room papered with Flower Fairies, and hung with twinkling lights. She slept in a little bed, guarded by a menagerie of stuffed toy animals, each with their own personality. In a garden there were flowers and butterflies and sunshine, and she had two (later three) little brothers with whom to play and adventure. This child was always surrounded by love and possibility - and books. Every day her mother (or father) would read to her - children's stories or poems; little songs, Aesop's fables and fairytales.

The Nine Peahens and the Golden Apples
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Snow White and Rose Red
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Most important of all to her developing sense of self, were the fairytales. In a bookcase of dark, richly stained wood, on the top shelf (beyond the grasp of stretching little fingers) stood a row of magical tomes, the Lang Fairy Books: Red, Blue, Yellow, Orange, Brown, Violet, Lilac and (a truly ancient first-edition with gold embossed Art Nouveau cover) Crimson. More stories than a child could count - and so they blended in her mind together into a tapestry of story, a window to a world... Every day - or almost every day, her mother would read a tale to her. The stories in these books spoke of something true within the child's soul; something strange and infinitely marvellous - a perilous beauty that enriched every instant and added an incomparable colour to the world. The stories told of heroes, male and female, of cunning and courage, of speaking animals and shape-shifting spirits, and of the restless desire to go beyond the realm of the ordinary - to climb into the sky and bring down a singing harp; to divine the secrets of the wizards' book; to be stronger than fate; to seek the Bird of Truth and learn the shivery wonder of the words "East of the Sun, West of the Moon".

"The crown returns to the Queen of the Fishes" , The Girl-Fish
Artist Henry Justice Ford

How Ian Direach Got the Blue Falcon
Artist Henry Justice Ford

You will have guessed by now the name of that girl-child. My own fairytale began this way, snuggled between my mother's legs, resting my head against her stomach and looking with wide, wondering eyes at the pages she held before my face - the arcane script I was to understand a few years later, and the pictures which I understood immediately on a deep, instinctive level. These were in truth pictures of Faerie, full of a life, emotion, beauty and detail - and more, a solemnity that I trusted. They took themselves seriously; they contained no falsity and cliché. They were not confined to any particular time-period or culture, and so felt at once universal and uniquely faerie. They helped to mould my own imaginings. As I heard the words of each story, other, vivid images bloomed in my mind, in beauty and kind like unto the Lang illustrations by Henry Justice Ford. I would find later that music, as well as words, evoked such fantasies in my mind - and even later would be able to name that joyful gift as synaesthesia. 

"When she stood upright her ugliness had all gone", The Groac’h of the Isle of Lok,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"Pivi dives for the shellfish", Pivi and Kabo
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"Under the golden apple tree", The Nine Peahens and the Golden Apples,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Later I would be able to create my own stories, and to depict some of my imaginings with pencil and paint. I would discover that I had an inner world that I could quite literally explore and recount and describe the things I saw along the way... I would eventually discover my potential for heroism. But that would be later. The first notes of the "horns of Elfland" echoed in my mother's voice, and my first glimpses of Faerie were through beguiling, beautiful illustrations of H.J. Ford.

Lung Lung
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Mother Holle,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

This was the first page of my fairytale. But in my life there have been (already) many chapters and many developments of my persona from the baby girl to the young woman - many stories. Let us turn the pages...

"The Princess at the Curtain",  The Enchanted Knife
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"The kitchenmaid listens to the nightingale", The Emperor and the Nightingale
Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there lived a girl-child, who walked half her waking hours in Faerie; an adventurer and a dreamer, avid for knowledge and story. She read anything and everything she could find: natural history, ancient history, children's stories, recipe books and first-aid guides, and - smuggled into her bed when she was supposed to be having her afternoon nap - Anne of Green Gables.  She read poetry too - anthologies that filled her mind with half-understood images and scenes of far-off times. She thrilled to them.

"Petru is forced to turn back", The Fairy of the Dawn
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"The King sees the Snow-Maiden", The Snow Maiden and the Fire-Son
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there lived a girl-child who, when bullied at school, garbed herself in invisible armour and saw scales on the skin of her tormentors; a child who turned every obstacle, in her own mind, into just another a trial in a heroic quest; a child who whispered to the trees in her garden and made offerings of berries and hair to the spirits of the flowers and the trees. 

East of the Sun, West of the Moon
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there lived a girl-woman who, restless, began to seek new knowledge and new stories - who discovered ugliness, triteness, evil and cynicism in her quest to find the Bird of Truth, and who learned "what fear was" on her quest. A girl-woman who discovered true friendship, love (and loss), confidence (and doubt). A girl-woman who discovered further insights into Faerie through the books of Tolkien, Jordan, Hobb and Dart-Thornton; the paintings of Burne-Jones, Kinuko and John Howe; the poems of Tennyson, Keats and Yeats; and the music of Enya, Loreena McKennit and Kitaro, among a galaxy of other inspiring luminaries. A girl-woman who named herself for the hero she wanted to be - a magical, strong and beautiful "second self" - then later realised that "alter-ego" was herself. A girl-woman who stumbled and despaired; knew exhaustion and elation and uncertainty; who was understanding, and unfair; who knew great bliss and shone most gloriously.

"The North Wind seizes the wreath", The Fairy of the Dawn
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"Fairer-than-a-Fairy summons the rainbow", Fairer-than -a-Fairy,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there lived a girl-woman who began to set her feet on "the Road less traveled", and who decided on a monster to pursue, and a gleaming goal to strive towards... Who pushed herself to create, and to excel - but who nonetheless found many distractions along the road. A girl-woman who understood that the heart of Faerie is Mystery, and the heroic quest a journey towards "that untraveled world whose margin fades/Forever and forever as I move". 

"Among the flowers were lovely maidens who called to him with soft voices", The Fairy of the Dawn
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"Then she reached the three cutting swords, and got on her plough-wheel and rolled over them", The Glass Mountain,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Here I pause, where the ink is wet. 

The rest of the page is blank. This is my fairytale - so far. But it is part of the beauty of a fairytale, that it can be told again and again with slight variations and in different voices, and yet mean much the same thing... The heroes (female and male) of the Lang books are all archetypes that we contain within us. Thus while my story is uniquely, magically mine - many of you may have stories that are similar in kind, though not in form.

"The Witch-Maiden sees the youth under a tree", The Dragon of the North,
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"The Blue Fairy transforms Prince Darling", Prince Darling
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Tolkien wrote:

"In the Trees of the Sun and Moon root and stock, flower and fruit are manifested in glory". 

"The hero Makoma and the spirit of the river-fever", The Hero Makoma
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"Queen of the Snakes, give me back my husband!", The Queen of the Snakes
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Whatever our twists our paths may take - no matter how long the road, or how dark the forest, or whether we meet with dragons, demons or fair Fortune herself - this is truth. For those of us who choose to walk partway in the world of Faerie - all reality and all our journeys are given a particular dimension and added joy. 

The Magician's Wife
Artist Henry Justice Ford

"The Queen saves the prince from Death", The Story of the Prince Who would Seek Immortality
Artist Henry Justice Ford

Once upon a time there was a writer... and a reader. And a path.

"The shepherd comes to the arch of snakes", The Language of the Beasts
Artist Henry Justice Ford

And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about yon fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae. - Thomas the Rhymer 

In the Forest
Artist Henry Justice Ford

The Sound of the Soul: Creating Immortality through Music, Art and Story

“Consciousness expresses itself through creation. This world we live in is the dance of the creator. Dancers come and go in the twinkling of an eye but the dance lives on... The creator and creation merge into one wholeness of joy."

- Dancing the Dream, Michael Jackson

Joy calls to joy...

Music is one of the most powerful, mysterious forces we know. It can move us to tears, exultation, peace and triumph. It can "possess" the body through dance - it transcends language as a means of communication - it seems integral to the universe - yet we cannot truly comprehend what it is...

It is almost a force of magic - nay it is magic! For I have found that listening to music evokes images and fantasies within my mind. It is a creative force - but more than that I have found that it bridges the past and present - and reaches from beyond death...

The Passing of the Soul at Death - Evelyn de Morgan

Listen to this piece of music: Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun. It was the absolute favourite piece of music of someone I loved very dearly, who is now dead. When I listen to it I am filled with a terrible happiness, a sweet melancholy, a sense of wonder and an aching, consuming love. Because this piece of music contains something of the soul of the one I loved - wherever and whatever happens to a soul after death - for though I hope I cannot know or trust with any surety - the beauty and love and wonder; the kindness and innocence and hope that characterised this soul - remains in the world, every time the music is played. Whenever I listen to it - I know that in the past these same notes were heard by him, and perhaps he was moved to tears as I am, every time.

The emotions of a yearning soul, searching for a sense of a connection ... 

It is doubly powerful because I know that one day I too will be dead, and though I hope that will not be the end for me, whatever happens this piece of music - and the other pieces that I feel as part of my own soul - will remain.

I find it apt that Hope plays music while she waits blindfold... But as long as the music lasts, so will she...

What is a musical composition but the expression of the soul - those feelings and imaginings that move and drive us? Art too is an expression of the soul. So is writing. Whenever another person hears the music, reads the tale; views the painting, and feels their own soul stirred - is communing with that soul, and with the soul of everyone, past and future who will be similarly affected.

Who knows who is listening, past and future, to the song of the present? To the Chant D'Amour? 

This makes me consider of those pieces of music, art and writing that become part of the soul. You know the ones I mean - the ones that transcend ordinary "liking" or admiration and which shape the person you become. Pictures that are painted on the heart. Poems spoken wordlessly with every breath. Music singing in your mind, over and over, until your body's movement becomes a dance. Characters that walk beside you when you feel afraid, and whom you cherish fiercely. Wonderful and perilous places discovered between the pages of a book, which you align with your own reality every second of the day. Perhaps you created them. Perhaps a kindred-spirit created them. But they become part of who you are.

We all have a few books that become part of our identity... Reading becomes a source of self-affirmation, a journey and a search for guidance; a connection with the wisdom of the past.

I think that is why we create. It is a deep (if incomplete) connection, unbounded by time and immortal as an idea. While the creation exists, so does the creator. And so too exist forever all those who saw themselves reflected in a picture painted hundreds of years ago, who hear their souls' keening in an old melody; who walk within a "secondary world". Once something has been thought of, it can never die, for its potential is always there to be re-awakened. 

It's some comfort.

Just create... just create
Immortality's my game
From Bliss I came
In Bliss I'm sustained
To Bliss I return

- Are You Listening?, Michael Jackson

 Transcendent Spirit

The Elusive Quality of Autumn

Autumn leaves in a forest pool...

I am enamoured of Autumn.

It is such an exciting time of year - a season of colour and contradictions; harshness and sensuality, sorrow and celebration. It is a time of fruiting and of dying - a season both "mellow" and tempestuous. It is a time of mystery - a transitioning time from the light and life of summer to the dark, bleak time of winter. As with all "between" times, it eludes definition, save through a poet's metaphors and an artist's brush. 

Mist blurs the boundaries of perception - autumn is a season of mystery...

When we think of autumn we tend to think in terms of images, sensations, emotional stirrings and stories. So I have found it, at least. In writing this blogpost I found my first attempts to describe and define my love for this strange and changeful time of year to be pitifully inadequate in their colourless generalisation;, and found myself recounting instead my vivid memories and perceptions of the season.

Autumn at Ashley's Cottage by Thomas Kinkade

Autumn can be beguiling and sensuous. It is  time when one has a pleasant excuse to stay indoors, wrapped in soft wools while it rains or mist envelopes the house. At this time of year we revel in the crackle, the light and the sharp, exciting smell of an open fire; and we taste the sweetness of stored summer sunlight in the taste of a ripe plum or bulbous, juicy berry and rejoice... Hot, filling, homecooked meals fill us with a contentment and comfort provided by a bounteous harvest.

The traditional harvest feast of Mabon

"Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor..." - Ode to Autumn, John Keats

Autumn's harvests have traditionally been celebrated with festivals of mythic, religious and communal significance. Though harvest festivals have been of recent years too often commercialised and trivialised in the Western World, I was fortunate enough to experience some of their traditional, mythic flavour when I was in primary school. I attended a Rudolph Steiner school, and in April we celebrated with a communal feast of light and song and story. Each family contributed homebaked food and fresh harvest fruits. The mudbricked ovens (built by children's hands) glowed from within, as hippie parents with long hair and colourful clothes baked pizza on handcarved paddles. In the amphitheatre, surrounded by bushland and decorated with paper lanterns painted with watercolour, the children acted out the mythic archetypes of hero, saint, princess and king. Music was provided by a group of children playing wooden recorders, while others chanted the narration. A drumbeat was heard. From the shadows of the trees came a horned and snakelike figure - a dragon with a dozen little bare feet, pounding joyfully on the dirt. 

Samhain

Dark tales are associated with autumn; a season that is not merely about fruitfulness, but also dying...

Of course, there are darker rituals associated with autumn than the one in which I participated. Darker stories that, however legendary, hold a "truth" in the mind and shape my perception of the season. Autumn evokes for me stories of Samhain - images faces half-bestial and eldritch flickering in and out of shadows at the edge of firelight. The pages of an old book of tales evokes Old British spirits and superstitions, and eerie tales of witches and "ghosties and ghoulies and lang-legged beasties" told around the hearth. There are tales of blood and death and the things beyond the grave that prick the skin on the back of the neck, while outside the wracked trees claw at the stormy sky.

Mist is incredibly evocative...

Keats was right when he said autumn was a "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness", though that description of course does not encompass the whole. Many of my most abiding memories of autumn are of mist rolling into my garden, obscuring the valley and the mountains, beading crystal droplets on the leaves of trees and grass and clover. Some drops roll into the centres of nasturtium leaves, making me think of the pearly dew in the story of Jorinda and Jorindel. Mist also bedews the needle-like leaves of the juniper (blue-green, now taking on a reddish tint) and the golden fringes of the cypress tree. Mist encrusts the wool of my jumper, and my eyelashes and hair. It creates mystery, but gently. It beautifies, even as it conceals. 

Autumn rain

Autumn is also a time of rains - fierce, driven and torrential. Yesterday I looked out of my window at the harbour and marveled at the glory of a rainbow across the water. Five minutes later the entire harbour was blotted from my sight in a sudden flash-downpour that was so forceful, the roofs of the houses below me seemed to "smoke" from the spray sent-up with each droplet. After a minute of white near-blindness, I saw blue sky through the pouring rain. In another two minutes, the rain had completely stopped and the sky was clear again. 

But as well as being a season of darkness and diffuse dimness, Autumn is a season of colour and splendour. The very light is more golden; all colours are more saturated and the sky deepens to a rich sapphire. Most spectacularly the leaves of deciduous trees blaze forth in innumerable shades and hues.

The myriad colours of autumn

How many shades are there of red? Our language can describe crimson, scarlet, vermillion, carmine, blood-red, cerise, claret, puce, roseate, garnet, geranium, russet, rust and titian... And of the other flame hues: yellow and orange, the thesaurus provides us with: champagne, xanthic, creosote, aureate, aurulent, citrine, canary, fallow, flavescent, flavicomous, fulvid, lutescent, primrose, sallow, sulphur, xanthous, tawny, sunshine, ochrous, saffron, cadmium, apricot, bittersweet, carrot, coral, salmon, tangerine, titian and auburn. For  brown we have amber, auburn, bay, beige, bister, brick, bronze, buff, burnt sienna, chestnut, chocolate, cinnamon, cocoa, coffee, copper, drab, dust, ecru, fawn, ginger, hazel, henna, khaki, mahogany, nut, ochre, puce, russet, rust, sepia, sorrel, tan, tawny, terra-cotta, and umber. For green (and there is green in autumn) we have: apple, beryl, bice, chartreuse, fir, forest, malachite, jade, peacock, moss, olive, verdigris, viridian, pine, sage and sap.

Fallen leaves on wet stone - what image can do justice to the indescribable scent and colour of reality?

This is a mighty, and one might say, comprehensive list. But how many of these words are but the names of trees and plants and pigments, found in nature? And what of the myriad tints and gradations that cannot be written? A painter could better capture this iridescence with a brush, but the breadth and vibrancy of Nature's palette in Autumn is unrivaled by any mortal artistry. 

Autumn Leaves, by John Everett Millais

And oh - what are the words for the scents of Autumn? How can one do justice to the smell of wet leaves underfoot; the smell of sunwarmed blackberries or the smell of wood-smoke? And what about the emotions evoked in the soul by the sight of departing birds, flying in wavering arrows towards a warmer land; or the wildness stirred in the soul by the rising winds, until the feet and blood pull you pelting down the road to dance with the blowing leaves; or the state of peaceful melancholy evoked by the contemplation of yellow willows trailing in a slow-moving stream?

The wild winds of autumn stir the soul...

... and set one dancing with the leaves

Autumn seems to me sometimes like a beautiful, emotionally-volatile lover, who dazzles the eye differently in every changing hour; a lover who can be fierce and gentle and cold; generous and destructive; golden and pale and lowering storm all in one day... Infinitely fascinating; infinitely complex; infinitely beautiful. One who never lets you see their whole self - yet in the facets revealed to you is such a beauty that you spend the rest of the year musing on the mystery of their being. One who mocks you for your pitiful attempts at definition.

The Spirit of Autumn

Perhaps the wisest words belong to Robin Hobb, who wrote in her beautiful novel Golden Fool:

"Words do not contain or define any person. A heart can, if it is willing."

I think the same could be said of a season. 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun...