Already the feeling of folding inwards towards the longest nights is fading from our beings, and we begin to notice more light in the skies and start to step with the lighter feet that echo the new hopefulness of the earth as it awaits its awakening into spring. And while I wait for this magical story teller to whisper her spring story to me, I share with you her gentle dreaming winter's tale
A STORY TELLER'S WINTER TALE
Now in the stillness of endless time past-by and forever to come, in the sleep spell of the world, in the waiting of winter whiteness, the story teller slips into sleep.
Now in the stillness of endless time past-by and forever to come, in the sleep spell of the world, in the waiting of winter whiteness, the story teller slips into sleep.
Nestled in the folds of darkened ground below, she shares her dreams with the earth.
She dreams of the children, dancing, singing, she dreams of their stories, their adventures, their worries, she dreams of the bees and their humming and the taste of honey and of the love letters that the flowers write on their petals to be carried on the summer breeze with the fluttering butterflies. She dreams of the splish and the splash of raindrops and the cloak of mist that wraps itself around her shoulders, so gently from the sea.
And some of the story teller’s dreams seep into the lustrous layers of crystals, and some mingle with the messages carried by the roots of trees, and some rise up into the air floating high high into the sky to twirl with the falling feather flakes of the snow goose.
The snowflakes flutter down and cover the ground and the laughing children join their bright lightness and scoop them up and play, because the children do not sleep through the sleeping time of the earth, they play, keeping the spark of joy for life alive.
And now, amongst the happy shouts and snowball throwing and fast sledging, one dear child gathers the snow into a womanly form, drawn from the memory of the story teller’s kindly cradling lap.
All this bright joy is happening in the cold endless air, while under the blanket of snow, the story teller rests, with all her dreams, and all the goodness of her heart, which the children have gladdened all year through their play. And her goodly gladdened heart now nourishes the earth, giving strength and form to the newly growing beings, letting them know of the world they are becoming into and the children who will play with them and touch them with their tender hands and love them with all their hearts in turn.
So soft in the ground is the sighing sound of the story teller’s dreams, and the meanings that they tell is truly older and younger than any words that I know, but if you were to lay your ear against the cold earth and hear with your imagination the feeling that you might hear, would surely be close to a lullaby.
