flax-golden

the brief, bittersweet romance of leaves and snow

The leaves are patient. They wait, and they hope.

Their less romantic compatriots tease them. Call them foolish for continuing to cling to their branches while the rest ride away on autumn winds.

Sometimes they doubt, gazing up at blue skies, but they always hope.

Eventually their patience is rewarded and the snow begins to fall. They blissfully catch as many flakes as they can hold.

They know it will not last for long. Such things are not meant to last.

Leaves and snow relish their brief and chilly time together.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

a small but helpful stray panda

The panda followed me home. Probably because when I encountered it sitting on the side of the road I pet it gently on the head but I hadn’t ever pet a panda before and I wanted to see what it felt like. (Not as soft as I’d supposed, but he needed a bath.)

I didn’t realize he was following me until I got to my house and he headbutted my leg while I was unlocking the door. He’s kind of stealthy for a panda, but he’s small-ish, about the size of a medium-sized dog or an overweight cat, and he doesn’t make much noise.

I didn’t let him in, I’m not sure why. I guess pandas seem like wild animals regardless of size and whether or not they turn up unexpectedly on suburban sidewalks and enjoy pets on the head.

The panda whined and pawed at the door after I went in and that night he slept on the porch swing curled up like a black and white pillow.

The next day when I went outside he brought me a small branch and for a moment I thought he wanted to play fetch but then I realized he’d trimmed all the bushes, better than the gardener ever did.

After he helped me hang the holiday lights I decided I should let him come inside.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

slow

My therapist recommended the whole nature retreat thing. She pointed out how much vacation time I’d accumulated and pontificated about stress and also she threatened to call my boss if I didn’t go, which didn’t seem particularly ethical but I didn’t want to argue with her.

I had to lock my cell phone and my laptop in a box when I got here. The bearded guy in the office said he was going to bury them in the garden for the week but I think he was joking. He gave me a notebook and a fountain pen which is actually really nice to write with. I like the way the ink soaks into the paper.

Mostly the staff leaves the residents alone and everyone is friendly in a quiet sort of way, but if you need anything you can ask and they’ll help.

On my second day I asked for a new notebook since I’d filled the first one already, with thoughts and poems and little ink stars. The bearded guy gave me three more and suggested a good writing spot, showed me the right path and told me to keep an eye out for the sign, which was easy to spot because it’s painted in bright blue and happy yellow flowers.

He didn’t explain why the sign says “slow” but once I’d filled an entire notebook only to look up and see that the sun had only just barely moved from the same spot in the sky where it had been when I started writing, I figured it out.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

paranormal postage thievery

The mailman noticed the vampire before I did. He mentioned it to me when he delivered a package that needed a signature. He said it was a small vampire, probably nothing to worry about but he thought I should be aware.

I thanked him but I didn’t really believe it until I saw the vampire myself, standing outside in a black and red cape.

He is a very small vampire, maybe about two feet tall. He lurks around the mailbox and occasionally tries to reach inside but he’s not tall enough.

The sunlight doesn’t seem to bother him, but if I open the door when he’s there he hisses like a cat and disappears into the shrubbery.

I decided to see if he was actually trying to steal the mail so I “accidentally” dropped an unimportant letter on the ground and went back inside to watch him through the window.

The vampire creeped out of his hiding place and very carefully peeled the stamp off of the letter.

He took the stamp and disappeared back into the shrubbery and I haven’t seen him since.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

be happy for no reason

It didn’t take long to learn to keep my head down so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone during my walk, and the fact that it meant no one could tell if I was crying was an additional bonus. It was easier, really, since the pitying looks of passersby only made me feel worse.

Staring downward, I counted bricks until I knew exactly how many I stepped over during each possible route.

I continued to stare at the bricks even after they’d all been counted. For a while I tried to find patterns in cracks and chips and uneven corners.

Anything to avoid looking up.

Then the bricks started talking to me.

I thought the messages were random diminutive graffiti until they occasionally addressed me by name.

Some days they spout fortune cookie-esque wisdom, other times they compliment my socks.

I take extra walks now, to see what the bricks have to say, and sometimes I get so distracted by looking for the messages that I forget to cry.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

unexpected aftermath of a school bus accident

The house is one of those beautiful old types with creaking doors and long dark hallways that looks like it should be haunted but it isn’t. The realtor assured us as much when we moved in, even showed us the historic records. I think she did it mostly to prove there were no records of any deaths occurring within the house’s walls despite its age.

We didn’t have any strong beliefs about ghosts one way or another, so we bought the house more concerned with the plumbing and the electrical system than anything else.

In retrospect I wish we’d at least thought to inquire about the yard.

We started seeing them not long after we moved in. Little glimpses of bright white shadows caught through windows or out of the corner of eyes while on the front walk or out in the garden.

They’re small. They like to play games, like hide-and-seek or ring-a-ring o’ roses.

At first they’d disappear if they saw us looking, but lately they’ve been lingering and I have a feeling once all the boxes are unpacked and they know we’re going to stay a while they might ask us to play.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.