flax-golden

the year in moments, caught in birds

Every moment of the year gets a bird, and somehow there are always enough to go around.

The positive things caught in the purple birds.

Negatives in the red.

Twittering and sparkling.

People call some years purple years or bemoan the accumulation of so many unexpected red birds, but the hidden truth is that the polarity of each moment does not matter, not once they have reached their respective birds.

They all sparkle. They all sing.

For a moment here at the end of the year we gather all the bird-moments and put them on display, the red and the purple and the ones that shimmer somewhere in between.

We consider them, look them over, weigh the year in glitter and feathers and loses and gains.

Then we let them all fly away.

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

anxiously awaiting

They know it is almost time.

They can feel it in the air.

They gaze up expectantly. Wide-eyed and curious.

Waiting for snowflakes and surprises and sugarplums.

Preparing themselves for spiced punches and brightly-wrapped packages.

Waiting by their trees, twinkling-lit, festive in their sweaters.

Ready to sing and laugh and drink and cheer.

Ready to ride out the year in a tumble of joy and merriment and peppermint-bright hope.

Ready for wonder again.

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

seasons greetings from george the toad

He greets everyone warmly, old friends always even if you’ve only just met. If someone refers to him politely as Mister Toad he will chuckle and say that Mister Toad is his father and do please call him George.

George offers cocoa and tea and mugs of warm soup made with winter squash and cinnamon and sage. To take the chill off, he says, even as the snowflakes continue to fall on your hat and in your soup.

(But he is correct, it does remove the chill as gently as unravelling the scarf around your neck, though your scarf stays cozily in place.)

Mr. Toad hops about under your chair and fusses over the sparrows in their house to be certain they have biscuits with their tea, explaining that the biscuits with the sugar icing birds are their favorites, resulting in a flurry of twittering cannibal jokes from the sparrows.

George tells stories and shares recipes and rhapsodizes about this magical time of the year, going on at length about how delighted he is to have such lovely company.

“He used to be a prince,” someone whispers quietly to their neighbor.

“He still is,” comes the deft reply.

George himself says nothing about the matter, but he winks at you as he refills your tea.

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

steps

Step 1 is not the hardest, though it has a reputation for being such.

(It has been worn more than all the others, by countless feet that have passed before you so it is softer and lower and easier to climb.)

Step 2 and Step 63 are the most difficult, for very different reasons.

There is no step 72, for superstitious reasons.

There are 59 different steps filled with doubt.

Step 99 will boost confidence, but only if stepped on with both feet.

On step 147 you will realize whether you should be going up or down.

(It will likely be opposite of the direction you had been traveling, but you will find new steps on the reverse trip.)

You may stop and rest whenever you need, revisit past steps or never look back.

The steps are what they are, for you to use as you decide.

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

the gulls who guard the lake

they call them seagulls because lakegulls is not a word

but they are gulls of the lake and it is the lake that they guard

they cry alerts that are too often misunderstood

interpreted as demands for scraps of bread

guardian gulls are not beggars

their reputations are tarnished by ill-mannered gulls who call less treacherous waters home

no one thanks these gulls for their service

but they keep their watch, never sleeping

they know what lurks beneath the waters

they fret, concerned that when the time comes, their warnings may not be heeded.

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

bargain-priced wisdom

I can feel them sneaking glances at me from across the room but they don’t swivel their heads and fix their giant owl eyes on me until I get closer.

“We will share with you the Wisdom of the Ages!” one of them chirps.

“For less than 30 Euros!” the other adds.

“How much less?” I ask, even though I can read their price tag.

“One cent!” they chirp in unison before bursting into hooting laughter.

The shopkeeper thanks me when I buy them and appears to enjoy muffling their exuberant cries about going on “a box-journey” with tissue paper as she packs them up for me.

I put them on the mantelpiece when I get them home. They criticize my taste in furniture and complain that the fireplace makes their feet too warm.

I contemplate returning them and then they start doling out the Wisdom.

They punctuate each mind-expanding revelation with hoots and bad jokes but I’m too busy looking for a pen to care.

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