The Magic of the Cuckoo


Are you listening?


Are you listening?


The night brings truth, wrapped up in ugly looking wrapping paper of fear and resentment. Everything that is not authentic has rough edges that are not softened by daylight or conventions.


Sorrow unwrapped. Doubt.

Can I do this?

Do I want to do this?

Would it not be better to leave this mess and allow myself to fly freely, to live the love I know, unburdened by other people’s doubt and fear?


Like a knock that slowly enters my consciousness, the cuckoo sings








What is he saying?


– Are you listening?


– Are you listening?


– Are you really listening to me?



Once I really hear his message and sense my being forming a YES, he stops singing.


He is the reminder that magic is forever present. That love wants to become form.


That fear wants to be unwrapped.


Love wants to be wrapped. In intentions, words and actions.



Are you listening?

…are you really listening?





Willow, the talking Tree

Her long, slender branches had finally grown back.

She had been trimmed down to the point of being just a naked trunk, awkward and ugly, but now the long swaying vines made her beautiful again.

People who came to sit down at the shore could catch her shade and be soothed by her long billowing hair.

The gardener who trimmed her down every fourth year was loving but strict. He knew that we all need that sometimes. To be stripped of too long, thick, hardening branches. To be naked for a while. Dwell inside and save up spring energy and then explode in streams of new life and stories.

Luisa was down at the shore today, sitting on one of the thick, calcified roots, her bones aching but not so much as you would expect from someone who was way over seventy. She was thinking about the small things, like what to cook for dinner and when her grandchildren would come by, but also about the big things, like how to live a full, sparkling life even when your hair is white and the animal of your body slows down.

She remembered something her grandmother Alicia had told her once about the trees.

“They are living beings, with spirits, like us baby girl. If you have questions, all you have to do is choose a tree you like and then knock on the trunk and ask. The answer will always be given, in some form. A voice, a sign, a song on the radio.”

Luisa turned her stiff back and knocked on the trunk of the Willow tree she loved so much. Her voice was sandy and hoarse when she put words on her ponderings.

“Tell me Willow…how do I grow older with lots of laughter and pride?”

She listened but heard nothing. Just the water and playing children somewhere close. She patted the bark anyway, thanked the tree for shadow and beauty and got up to do her daily errands.

When she walked up to the road she ran into the gardener who was busy, as always, with the soil and leaves and blossoms.

– She is a beauty, isn’t she? He smiled and nodded in the direction of the Willow.

– It’s the best place to sit in the whole village.

– You know, some people get mad when I prune the trees. It looks awful for a while, that is true for sure. But if you don’t do that, they grow out of control and the branches become too heavy for the trunk. You really need to help those trees by trimming away the old and make room for the new.

He was talking even though she hadn’t asked anything and he didn’t seem to wait for a reaction from her. He was still muttering when he walked back to his little truck.

Luisa’s knees went weak.

It couldn’t be.

The gardener brought the answer to her question.

Luisa went home that day and cleared out all of her closet and the spair rooms.

Then she welcomed the awkward emptiness, keeping the long, slender, light green branches of the Willow in mind.

Glimgluff, the sad Troll

Fabian walked in the woods every morning, just before sunrise.

His grandmother’s little house was just at the foot of the mountain and miles of woods lay between them and their closest neighbours.

He followed the rim of the mountain. The birds sang as if they knew that the first sunrays need to be sung into this realm, otherwise it will remain dark.

This morning another sound broke through the melodies and the chirps. Someone was crying loudly and hopelessly. Fabian looked around and saw the shadow of something huge leaned against the mountain wall.






Fabian could not believe what he saw. Round-eyed. Curly-haired. Big-boned.

– Can I help you?

Fabian’s light voice cut right through the convulsions and the troll looked up, startled, his eyes now even bigger and rounder.

– Who…who are you?

– I am Fabian. I live in the white house down there. Who are you?

– I am Glimgluff. I am the youngest in the troll family living in this mountain.

Fabian tried to conceive of this idea. It seemed to make sense. If someone should live in a mountain, it should be a troll.

– Why are you crying?

– Nobody likes us. Nobody likes ME. I am too big, too ugly, too scary. People think that we are all bad. That we keep children captured in the mountain.

– I have heard those stories. Are they not true?

– Well…there have been a few bad trolls in the family, who did bad things. But that was then. I am not them. I love children. I just want to play. But I am so big and heavy, I can’t fit into any building. And it is making me feel really lonely.

Fabian felt really sorry for Glimgluff. He seemed to be a boy just like him but caught in the body of a giant.

– What should I do?

Glimgluff looked at Fabian with round button eyes that never seemed to blink.

– I don’t know.

Fabian sat down next to him.

– Do you want to come fishing with me?

Glimgluff looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He nodded so intensely that his moss covered curls flung back and forth.

All morning they were down at the river, fishing with Fabian’s rod. It looked like a toothpick in Glimgluff’s hands. He was much too strong indeed and pulled the fish so hard out of the water that the line snapped every time. Or he accidentally squeezed the fish when he wanted to remove the hook, leaving only a wet stain between his thumb and his index finger. They were laughing until they couldn’t stand up anymore and the mountain trembled just a little every time.

They hurried back before the sun was too high in the sky, trolls were not supposed to be out in broad daylight.

Just before saying goodbye, Fabian looked at Glimgluff and said:

– Ask me again.

– What do you mean?

– The question you asked me this morning. Ask me again.

Glimgluff had to think really long and hard.

– What should I do?

– You are trying to fit into a tiny, human world. Why don’t you pull other people into your world instead? There is so much space and fun in your world. I could play with you forever.

Glimgluff was thinking is his slow troll fashion and suddenly his brown, apple-cheeked face shone like the sun.

Since then, Gliffgluff has invited loads of children into his magic world. He has many friends and even though he still cries sometimes, he never has to cry alone anymore.




Great Grandmother Spider

She was misunderstood.

The weaver of wisdom and protection. Such a calm guardian. Kind, loving, fierce.

Yet she scared most people. Their fear wrote stories about her character and hers was a life that could be taken. Not a loss. She was a creepy being anyway.

In the ancient stories she was loved and praised because of the silky patterns she could weave. Only visible to the eye in the sunlight. And yes she could catch what she needed to feed her family. Why shouldn’t she? Everyone knew back then that she was a sacred guardian.

But people forgot. And now they seemed to want to kill her most of the time.

She was wondering if it was time to return to the unseen world, but she loved the world too much to leave it unwoven and unprotected.

Now and then there were beings even in the human world who could feel her presence and honour her role, her thread in the big fabric. That made it easier.

One day the ancient stories would be remembered, told, restored and rewoven. They were too magic and loving to disappear. She knew that nothing is ever really lost.

If Great Grandmother Spider greets you today…try greeting her as the guardian that she is.



Blackbird and little pig

Once upon a time in a country filled with the most beautiful forests, lived the blackbird who had forgotten how to sing.

She had been one of the Winged Ones who painted the forest with the most beautiful melodies anyone had ever heard. Such a transparent resonance it made everyone who came close feel at peace.

One day, when Blackbird wanted to call in the sunrise, she discovered that she did not remember how to sing anymore. She slapped her wings and flew rounds to shake up what must be a temporary blackout. She rested on her favourite oak tree branch and waited. Nothing. She splashed rainbows of water in the creek, dipping her head in the cold, clear water. Not a tune. Not even a click. She remembered the clicking sound that is the Winged Ones’ signature, she just couldn’t remember how to make the sound.

So she waited. And the forest turned silent.

One early morning when she felt extra sad she couldn’t greet the sun anymore, the bushes under her tree started moving back and forth. When she flew closer to examine the swaying branches she found herself standing in front of a small, wild pig.

He looked really scared, just panted and said nothing. She wanted to ask why he was afraid but since she couldn’t sing, the only thing she could do was to stay close and show him that he was welcome. He was still trembling but seemed to calm down a little bit so Blackbird decided to get some food for the furry little guy. She got some nuts from her stash and put them in front of him.

He ate, snorted and chewed – with a lot of noise. He was funny.

Little pig saw the creek and now dived right in. Rolling, coughing and squealing with joy. You would think he had never seen water! Blackbird couldn’t help but to laugh. Who was this funny creature?

When he finally lay down between the thick oak roots, exhausted from playing and swimming and running, Blackbird decided to stay close and keep an eye on him.

For days, little pig and Blackbird hung out together, eating, playing and sleeping really close. The pig was so clumsy and happy, every time he fell and got up again with a big smile, Blackbird was laughing until she almost fell out of the tree.

The morning she woke up and found that little pig had disappeared, she was devastated. Little pig! Her friend! She combed through the whole part of the forest that was familiar to her, looking for that endearing, grunting laugh.

He was gone.

She flew up to the highest top of the biggest pine tree and thought about all the fun they had had together. He was the most special friend she had ever had.

Before she knew it, harmonies and angelic clicks were painting the story of the unlikely friends. Notes cutting through the evening light sang water, moss, friendship and laughter to life, more beautifully than ever.

The forest sighed and welcomed the song it so had missed. Flowers opened, trees stretched out and branches trembled lightly.

Little pig never came back. But Blackbird never stopped hoping that he could hear her song.





Ant Ariel and the Underground Pyramid

You might think that they are not so significant, the ants. You can hardly see them, after all.

It is easy to shiver and tear up when seeing a majestic lion, an ancient giant mousse or an angelic giraffe. But an ant?

Let me tell you about a special friend of mine. Ariel the Ant started showing up in my dreams. All alone at first, he would simply make me curious in my dreams and have me follow him into his ant hill. (Sure, you can adjust your shape and size in your dreams.) There he would show me all kinds of stuff. Like how the pyramidical shape of an ant hill is mirrored under the ground and has one lowest point, the “tip”, where the guardian lives. And how their home was actually lit up from within, with light that seemed to emanate from themselves somehow. Like glow-in-the-dark-ants.

I could talk to him somehow and no one seemed surprised I was there. You could hear music in their pyramid and their home was some kind of connecting point in the woods. They would be hanging out and partying but now and then they had to head out and see to things in the woods. Clean up stuff, change the acidity in the ground somewhere for the moss.

One night we were sitting in one of the chambers when Ariel suddenly got really quiet.

“I need you to understand one thing about us,” he told me. “Have you understood that we are actually one being?”

I looked at him and laughed out loud. His friends, siblings and neighbours were coming and going, as always. Always moving, always busy.

“You might not be able to see it yet but we are actually one being.”

I didn’t know what to say because I figured he’d gone crazy, so I just nodded and then hurried back to my normal life, leaving my dreamtime friend.

One being. Did I not see thousands of ants move around building things and foraging for food?

I woke up in my bed and wondered what Ariel was talking about.

Months passed by and then turned into years. Hardships and age made me softer and more open to the unseen. One night, I found myself back with Ariel in the pyramid. Or rather, back in his home but he was not there, so I went looking for him. I scurried through endless rooms and dwindling aisles, up to the highest point and room by room looking for my friend until exhaustion got the better of me. I had to stop and rest.

As I relaxed, it seemed as if I could move sideways and up and down in a floating way and before I knew it I was feeling through and floating through walls and stairs and basement chambers. I was somehow shifting focus to feel and be the entire ant hill. I could feel every life, every consciousness but also the building itself. I felt it, I could even taste it. I could feel the ants outside of the ant hill, still one with the whole, just out working and foraging. There was a pulse, a silence, a presence.

One. It was me too, I was it and it was me.

So why would I look for Ariel, we weren’t just connected, we were somehow the same. The second I realized this, Ariel was right in front of me.

He could have said “I told you so” and “what took you so long”, but he just came close so we could enjoy the physical presence of each other too.

And that my friends, is the story of Ariel. A story of unseen allies and underground wonders.

I strongly recommend that you ask your own allies to make themselves known to you and tell you what you need to know.



The Butterfly and the Bear

She did not want to come out of her cave

Big mama Bear had been in deep winter sleep and she was skinny and hungry, but she was not coming out.

The other bear mamas came out of dark caves with cubs rolling out around their big paws.

This Mama Bear had no surviving cubs and was not going out into sunlight and the smell of berries. She was staying right here in the dim light, groggy and tired. Safe. She could not bring herself to start all over again one more time.

She knew everything would bloom again but why should she have to? She was still alone. She would have to find food only for herself, she had no one to protect or to get protection from.

Her tummy was growling. Fish and berries, that would be nice. Maybe she could find some food really close to the opening of the cave..?

She rolled over and crawled to the opening which was just big enough for her to squeeze herself out of her underground retreat. She was still so tired. She kept lying in the opening with her enormous, beautiful head on her paws.

Something fluttered and a yellow spot blurred her vision. There, on her winter dry nose, a big yellow butterfly with coral and orange swirls covering its wings. Since she was so tired, she simply let it sit. It was opening and closing its wings slowly, as if breathing.

Mama Bear fell asleep and when she woke up the butterfly was gone. She wanted to see it from a distance, so she could see the patterns of its wing more clearly. She sat up and started looking around for the yellow spot.

Something yellow-orange glimmered between the old pine trees in the distance and she stumbled there on weak winter legs to find the butterfly. It turned out to be cloudberries and she threw herself on the ground and sucked them all right off the small branches. Sweet and sticky. It made her even more hungry. But she wasn’t ready to go hunting just yet.

Just when she decided to return to her cave, the pulsing light spot passed by again, now landing on one of the naked cloudberry sprigs. The strokes of orange looked almost golden from a distance. Mama Bear was impressed.

“You are so pretty.”

The butterfly fluttered a little bit quicker but did not speak. She just sat. Then she disappeared like a dancing ball of light.

Mama Bear was back in her damp cave. She couldn’t stop thinking about the deep, sunny orange colour of the Butterfly. It felt like eating honey, just watching the wings open and close. She decided to crawl back out in the fresh air for a while to try to catch a glimpse of it again.

Sunlight filtered through the branches of the pine trees surrounding the cave and she sat down to get used to the light. To her amazement, when her eyes caught the bright honey wings again, it came out of her cave!

The Butterfly came flying out of the cave with soft, tempered movements. She landed in a blueberry bush and immediately started talking.

“Let me tell you about my people.”

Mama Bear had no idea how to react to this craziness but she was really too tired to do anything else than to sit and to listen.

“First there is an egg.

Sometimes in groups, sometimes a single one, always protected by a leaf. This is the beginning of everything. All we need is within the egg, it is full of nutrients and well protected by a hard shell.

Then it is time for the caterpillar to hatch. This is the time for our growth. The plant serving as our home is also our source of food and we eat and eat and eat. And grow. Now we are protected by our camouflage. We can look like plants. Or just frightening enough to scare off the ones who want to eat us. We can even mimic more dangerous beings just to protect ourselves.

Now comes the time for the big change, the chrysalis. We attach ourselves to a plant in a safe place and then we go through the magic. We basically melt and then take on a completely new form. Complete mutation. Very intense. Painful.

When we finally emerge as adults, we first look awful. We are wet and crinkled and first need to pump up our wings. Then we need to dry. And THEN we are ready to fly and make friends in the woods. Ready to be beautiful.”

Mama Bear was fascinated by the Butterfly’s story and her soft, silky voice. Silence filled the opening before the cave.

“Why are you telling me this?”

She was sitting down, not looking directly at the sunny orange spot, but keeping it safely in the corner of her eye.

“I just figured I think we all need to come out of something. We come out of our eggs, then  leave our caterpillar form and finally emerge from the chrysalis as a Winged One.

I can tell you want to stay in your cave. I just think there might be something amazing waiting for you too, outside of it.

Bear lowered her head and took in the words of this new friend.


She would have to think about it, but maybe,

just maybe,

Butterfly knew what she was talking about.





The hymn of the Elephants

The hymn of the Elephants is one of Mother Earth’s saddest songs.

It is the story of broken, splintered, blood-smeared tusks.

The story of the Elders of the Elders, who were maimed and imprisoned because of man’s greed.

Spirit elders, with so much to teach human beings, being humiliated and tortured.

Some songs need to be sung, no matter how unspeakable the horror of their truth is.

This is our family and it is still happening.

Tails are being cut off.

Loving, intelligent beings, far wiser than we are, are being murdered for fun and then photographed by triumphant, ignorant, cold-hearted killers.

The hymn of the Elephants could be such a different song.


Human beings sharing the Earth with them and honouring them as our elders,

loving them as our children,

laughing with them as our friends

and caring for them as our family.


The hymns of the Elephants could be the song in which the greatness of Human Beings emerges from the deep knowing of the greatness of our animal companions.

The hymn of our elders,

the Elephants.

The Tree Council

Did you know that there are councils for trees? Meetings for mighty, kind giants who talk about, or rather, sing about all the things that matter to them.

In the fairest of voices they paint their concerns and joys. There are enough sincere compliments sung on these meetings to make the most radiant of human families jealous.

This week they all sing about the miracle of the blooming of the Chestnut Tree.

Stronger buds than you have ever seen, round and appetizing to the eye, deliciously sticky. The trunk is spiralled like lukewarm, risen dough.

This tree spirit has one of the most beautiful songs you will ever hear. If you lean up against an awaking Chestnut Tree and find yourself tearing up, it is because your heart can hear the song.

This tree is like the Norse Gods in its uncompromising life force and miraculous buds. They open up like flowers and then deliquefy to become thorny green messages, hiding chestnut perfection.

If you have anything you would like to discuss with a wise, loving soul right now, go sit under a Chestnut Tree for a while. You will be astonished by what comes up within you. And you will recognize the voice of the tree spirit really soon.

The tree council has gathered. Next time other urgent matters will be sung.

The Rhino and the Tree

Once upon a time, in the pulsing heat of the ancient world, Mother Earth decided to send a Guardian to the physical world. One that would be strong enough to thrive in the coldness of spirit prevalent in the world. This Guardian would also have to be big enough to hold our akashic archives.

She chose the Rhinoceros for this honourable task. In different places of the ancient world, the Rhinoceros manifested from this loving intention.

Through aeons of lovelessness, the brave Rhino used their thick shield to just BE and hold space in the midst of darkness. They did not think and were therefore strong. Only on the cruellest of days, when they had witnessed and experienced too many atrocities, they wavered in their light.

So Mother Earth sent them special trees to keep the connection to her strong and healthy and frankly to cheer these precious love warriors up.

The frail trees that resembled bushes more than trees, were the sweetest spirits you could imagine. They sang to the giant ancients in the most angelic voices and offered lightness through their crisp and waterfilled leaves.

This marriage thrived for thousands of years, as long as it was needed.

When the Rhinos started to return to the formless world because of new kinds of energies asking for new kinds of protection, the trees went with them.

In fact, if the Rhinos could tell you anything right now, it would be this:

“If you miss us, all you have to do is to dive into the mirrored world, where we still live, love and thrive, together with our tree angels. Other warriors will arrive, new frequencies, colours and marriages. Trust this.