The Weary Dove

Once upon a time in a peaceful village, a boy found a dove sitting next to his garden tools. It did not move at all so he assumed it must be ill. It was marked though, had a ring around its left leg and looked different from the other village doves. Finer, with stripes running along its sides. If he came too close it brushed up and looked like a furry ball. But it didn’t look scared, not at all.

He threw a few crumbles of his bread at it, but no. Nothing. Not a sound. No movement.

If he would have been as wise as his grandmother who watched the whole scene from her window, he would know that the dove had a message for him.

It showed him how to just sit with whatever presented itself. To be still. To let the world be what it was at the moment and to take a rest from hunger and movement.

Just sit with it.

Let go of impressions, wishes, stories, reactions, travel, wind swirls and threats, real or imagined.

Just it with it. Whispered grandma from the kitchen.

 

 


The Buzzard and the Heron

The Buzzard and the Heron were hanging out at the pond, having a conversation about things they had learned in their lives. The Buzzard was the first to share and said to his friend the Heron:

– Never listen to beings who call you lazy. Only beings who don’t understand energy would say something like that. Some animals have called me lazy because I can sit on a pole or in a tree for days.

 

– I know that, I have heard them say it, nodded the Heron.

 

– My hunting skills depend on the way I manage my energy. If I cannot soar effortlessly, like when it is raining or very cold, I make sure I save my energy so I don’t get exhausted. Prey will even come to me when I am recharging.

 

– Oh, I know this skill. I use it in the water.

 

– Right? Then when the air heats up again, I can soar. Hunt. Sing. This is something more beings should do, it is wisdom and not laziness.

 

The Heron threw his head back, making the black, long feathers on his head dance. He clappered his bill tips.

 

– Never thought about it that way before.

 

– What about you, my friend? Tell me about something that is important to you.

 

– Well, people and animals have tried to make up all kinds of stories about the fact that I don’t belong to a flock. I fly and hunt alone. There are saying things about how I am a loner, I am restless and all kinds of things I can’t really follow. But you know…even though some of the stories made up are interesting, it is simply who I am to live and move alone. It is my nature. Just like it is the nature of a Starling to move in a flock. Simple as that. Not really interesting. Just nature.

 

– That is true.

 

– So I guess it would be easier for everyone if we stopped making up stories based on our own experiences and just took beings in the way that they are.

 

– I agree, my friend.

 

And the Buzzard and the Heron flew off, both in their own direction.

 

Following their own nature.

 

 


Lisa and the Star People

Lisa was sitting on a rock  in the middle of the forest behind her yellow terraced house.

There was a hole in the big rock that looked like a tiny gorge. Lisa imagined herself being really big and seeing this ‘mountain’ and gorge from above.

She squinted to imagine the trees growing on the sides of the mountain, the birds flying over it, the clouds brushing it. She imagined a line of people, tiny from her perspective, moving towards the top of the mountain together with their donkeys. The people were dressed in colourful ponchos and wore beautifully knitted hats with strings on the side.

She could see them patiently thread the tiny snake-like roads up the mountain. They did not speak but seemed happy to be ascending this imaginary mountain together.

Suddenly she felt something changing behind her and she turned from her helicopter view observation, only to stand in front of two very tall beings cloaked in white. They were a bit blurred, like a film projected on a wall. She looked up.

Lisa couldn’t think of anything to say.

– That’s a beautiful image you’re painting there high up in the Andes.

– In the what?

– The mountains. It’s lovely to visit places with your mind, don’t you think?

– What are you?

Lisa was right in between freaking out and being thrilled, she couldn’t choose how to feel.

– We are Star People. We are really good friends of yours, the Earth People. In fact, we are related.

– Are you human?

– No, we are star beings. But the humans are our family.

She blinked.

– Can you fly?

They laughed.

– We don’t exactly fly, we just travel but sort of without the vehicles you use for travelling.

– Are you angels?

– No. But they are family too. We are only stopping by today, short visit. And we have an important message for you.

Lisa leaned against the rock and held on to some moss to stay calm.

– That thing you were doing just now, when you were creating with your imagination, like travelling in your mind?

– Yes?

– We want to ask you to do that a lot. Those moments when you feel really good and light and limitless.

– Ok?

– We also want to ask you to help others do the same.

– But…everyone can do that.

– Yes they can. But they don’t. So we want to give you the very important task of helping them to remember how to do it and then help them to actually do it. Every day.

– But…why?

– This whole Earth-Star People-Angel family depends on it. Everything will be determined by what we can IMAGINE. TOGETHER.

Health. Peace. Nature. Climate. Science. Schools. Families. Do you understand?

– But…it’s just playing.

– Playing. With good, loving intentions. That’s what we need very very urgently. Are you in?

– You bet.

Big smile. Lisa had an important task. One that was fun too!

She started thinking about who to play with first,  and before she knew it the Star People were gone.

But not really.


The Buddha and the coughing cat

Right behind a wall of old bricks, under a Eucalyptus tree and surrounded by roses and lavender, sat the Buddha statue. He was put there to spread peace in the garden.

Now and then the family living there would place precious pebbles in front of him and weed away the Dandelion.

The Buddha was laughing and his round belly seemed to water abundance into the thriving garden.

One day the Buddha was interrupted in his perpetual meditation by a sound he did not recognize. It came from the corner of the garden, behind and apple tree and a fig tree.

 

– Who is that and what is your intention in this garden of peace?

 

Only silence at first. After a few minutes the green foliage behind the trees started to move and out came the most sorry-looking cat you could imagine.

He was orange, skinny and all wet. He was coughing like a heavy smoker.

 

– I am Christo the Cat.

 

– I see. What are you doing in my garden?

 

– I have been kicked out of my home. I don’t know where to go.

 

– That’s quite a cough you have there.

 

– I have been out in the rain for days and now I have a bad cold.

 

– So maybe you could explain this to me…I know many cats who are free, who live in the wild. They never get wet and they certainly never catch a cold.

 

– But if you’re out in the cold you get ill, right?

 

– Do the ducks get ill? The crows? The deer?

 

– Well I…I don’t know. It’s just that I’ve heard so many stories about cold and illness…and I…feel really ill and…

 

– Stories. Let’s talk about stories. What’s your story, Christo the Cat?

 

– Well…I was raised in a family that wasn’t good to me. They kicked me and forgot to feed me and now they have kicked me out.

 

– And before you lived with them?

 

– I only remember that I had a beautiful, sweet mother and two sisters.

 

– Loving mother. Warm, sweet. And then a temporary stay with a family that was not a match.

 

– I guess you could put it that way.

 

– Is it possible that you are now set free?

 

– Well…but…I don’t have a home.

 

– No? Were you not born wild? Born to make your loving mother proud? Do you not have the skills, strength and intelligence to live and thrive in the wild?

 

– I have no idea.

 

– Maybe this story is only just beginning? Maybe you are now free to remember who you really are?

 

Christo coughed again, but somehow the cough sounded less miserable and convincing than just five minutes ago.

 

– You know what? said the round-bellied Buddha. You are always welcome in my garden. I suggest you get some sleep under that fig tree. Then, when you are rested, you can think a little bit about your story. Maybe you don’t even know your story yet.

 

Christo the Cat did. He slept and slept.

 

And then he wrote a new story.

 

In the wild.

 

 


The Sky and the Grass

During a sunny summers day, the sky and the grass started talking to each other. The sky said:

“You know, I am the one who reminds everyone of all the space outside of their own little world. I hold the living beings with my light canopy, helping them to lift their eyes and minds from their burdens.”

“That is beautiful and we love you for that” said the grass.

“I am the one who offers comfort and rest. All living beings can rest in my grounding softness. Walk, sleep, or be on their backs looking up at you.”

“That is earthly abundance indeed” said the sky.

The little human who overheard them talking joined in.

“I am the one who gets to love you both. I am resting on the green softness of the grass, connecting me to Mother Earth. And when I look up I see only vastness. A mighty kindness. So I am here to connect to you both, loving both Heaven and Earth.”

“I am not sure we need you to do that”, said father Sky. “But it does sound beautiful.”

Mother Earth said nothing. She just kept sending her love up through the grass straws, to anyone who wanted it.


Eric the Elephant boy

Eric was not like the other children. His head was really big and his legs extremely short. His back was a bit crooked.

He was a little boy with the sunlight in his eyes. His loving parents worried that life would be hard for their son, since he looked so different.

Eric didn’t feel different than the other kids, but already some of his classmates had started calling him elephant boy when the teacher wasn’t around. He didn’t understand why, but decided to find out.

He asked his parents to take him to the zoo so he could visit the elephants. Once there, Eric was mesmerized by the giants. He could only just peek into the elephant garden, as usual he was too short to see things properly.

Eric spotted a baby amongst the adult elephants. It looked sad. Wasn’t playing. Hung with its head and trunk and looked around nervously. Eric was wondering why the little one looked sad and the minute he thought it, the baby elephant came stumbling over.

– Hi little elephant. Are you ok? You look like you’re sad.

The little one looked at Eric with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.

– I can’t remember things. You know, elephants are supposed to be able to remember EVERYTHING. But I can’t even remember the way down to the swimming hole. I’m worried I will never become a real elephant.

– But you look like a real elephant.

– Well, it’s a problem on the inside. And you are not a real elephant if you can’t remember stuff.

– Are you sure?

– Pretty much. It’s the way it has always been.

– Well you look like a beautiful elephant to me. You’re kind and you can talk to me so that seems really special to me.

– Thank you.

A tear fell from the little one’s eye.

– I think it’s easier for you, you are a prefect little human boy, so I think it might be hard for you to understand.

Eric took in what his new friend had just said. Something important shifted in his heart.

– You know…I don’t know much, but I know this…I think we should meet every week and just hang out and talk, like now. I think there might be something magic about hanging out together. And it would be so much fun.

– You don’t care about me not remembering stuff?

– Do you care about me being short?

Little elephant looked surprised.

– You humans are all short.

Eric reached through the bars to pat little elephant on his soft trunk.

– I just know we will be good friends.

 

And for all the thirty-seven years that Eric lived, they were. They were the best of friends and they taught their families a lot about elephants and boys.


The Starling and the Berries

Once upon a time in the mountains of a warm and sunny country, a Starling was busy harvesting the red berries he loved so much.

He had already picked seven of them from the tree and now he wanted to bring them to his nest. He flew away with one but then heard a sound behind him and immediately returned. He didn’t want anyone else to eat his berries.

He was wondering how to do this. Could he put all seven berries in his beak? He tried but could not fit more than three. He tried to grasp all seven berries with his feet but succeeded only with four and then accidentally squashed one.

Now, if you know anything about Starlings, you know that they move as one body, even in flocks of hundreds. They are like dancing clouds of dust, they bounce and swirl as if they are one with the mystic heart of everything.

Starling asked his friends to help him. They came in hundreds and they all brought one berry straight from the tree to their brother’s nest. It overflowed with red berries. Under it grew a shiny red hill of deliciousness.

When seeing all the abundance and the flowing movement of his own kin, Starling woke up.

He did not need to struggle and sit on more berries than he could eat in a day.

He asked his friends to all enjoy the berries they themselves had brought.

Then he set off to dance with the wind together with his flock.


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

 

Cuckoo

 

Cuckoo

 

Cuckoo

 

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?

 

 

 

 


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.