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.
the metal horses
Please do not feed the metal horses. No apples or grass. No nuts or bolts or bits of string.
They grow overly fond of people who feed them.
They will follow you home and it can be somewhat… difficult to get them to leave.
They are fiercely loyal, but that can be something of an inconvenience.
They will insist on sleeping at the foot of your bed.
They will nibble on your lawn or your electrical wiring or the hubcaps of your car.
And of course, they will rust if they get left out in the rain, though they do so love the rain.
It is best to entrust their care to the professionals, no matter how sweetly they beg.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
where the sidewalk doesn’t end
Would you walk me home?
Now, while there is still light? Before the afternoon turns to dusk? The light is fading quickly, so I’ll need an answer soon.
Would you walk me home along that line where autumn brushes against winter, and golden leaves melt into evergreen?
Where the sidewalk doesn’t end.
Where gloves do not require fingers to keep hands warm. (And you may hold my hand if you would like.)
It is a quiet kind of walk in this light, at this time.
I would appreciate the company.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
angel meditation
Please do not disturb the angels in the garden.
You will find them sitting in the quiet corners.
Contemplating.
Listening to the world as it grows.
Most weekdays from late morning to mid-afternoon.
You may sit and watch them, if you wish.
Thinking your own thoughts alongside.
Please don’t take it personally if the angels do not notice you.
They get lost in their thoughts quite easily.
Angel thoughts are heavier than you might suppose.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.
november pumpkins
It is a sad thing to be a pumpkin after Hallowe’en.
No more light inside.
No more chasing away evil spirits.
No more revelry.
Only the crunch of leaves in fading light and the growing chill in the autumn air.
October past and gone.
Watching fallen comrades smashed to pieces, rotting on the ground.
Unable to close your eyes or look away.
It is a sad thing to be a pumpkin in November.
All they want you for is pie.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.