objects in space
Only the objects remain. A forgotten suitcase. An empty chair.
Waiting for new stories to add to their old ones.
The old stories are gone. Slipped away through time and space. Replaced with price tags and rarely removed dust.
But you can hear them, if you listen quietly enough.
Stories are never truly gone. They just become more difficult to hear.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
coffeeshop magic
I don’t have the time to devote to circles or covens. I have to fit things in when and where I can, in stolen moments and cups of coffee.
Stirring clockwise to conjure.
Widdershins to banish.
There’s never enough time, and rarely enough caffeine, but I make do with what I have. Besides, cauldrons and pointy hats are overrated.
Sometimes I see other customers practicing. Pouring their cream and sugar with studied intent. Stirring with purpose.
I add an extra spoonful of sugar to my own coffee for them, to make all of our enchantments sweeter.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
property feature
The monster came with the house.
The realtor said they could get estimates from removal services but then there was some sort of confusion with determining ownership because of the property lines, because it spends so much time underground. And there was so much paperwork and expense involved that we figured it really wasn’t worth the effort and decided to just let it stay.
We liked the house too much to give it up over something as minor as a yard monster. Besides, it doesn’t really bother anyone. It stays in the yard. The first summer it accidentally destroyed the azaleas but I didn’t care for the azaleas anyway.
The monster prefers the winter. It likes the snow.
I’m not sure who gave it the scarf, but it seems to like that, too.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
zen snow
Do not scowl to see the snow fall.
Do not fret that it is so cold that you cannot feel your toes.
Do not complain that the weather is frightful.
The weather is only weather. It will change as it always changes.
Accept it as it comes with open arms. Remember how to look at such things with wonder.
Be joyous. No matter what the weather.
Be joyous, for the snow is cold and soft and sugar-sweet.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
light in the cold
Once he considered it a curse. A punishment. Like Sisyphus pushing forever up the mountain, and at least Sisyphus could move.
All he could do was stand. Stand in ever-frozen stillness. Stand and hold the light aloft.
But that was a very long time ago, and time has changed his perspective.
Now he considers it an honor to be the lightbearer. To carry the light in the cold. To be a beacon in the dark.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
tattered & tied
Someone tied a ribbon on a tree and then someone else tied another. And another and another after that, more people and more ribbons and an ever-growing tangle of color.
At some point they added bits of rope to tie them like a web from tree to tree, with the ribbons falling like a willow made of rainbows in between.
There are tassels and stars and other objects hidden amongst the ribbons and rope. Some of the ribbons aren’t even ribbons, just bright strips of fabric that look like ribbon from afar.
The stories about what they’re meant to symbolize get tangled up and frayed as much as the ribbons themselves. Memories of old wars tied to long-finished prayers. Well-worn wishes wound through forgotten dreams.
They can’t be separated from one another anymore. Knots and time bind them too tightly together.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.