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.

 

 


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.


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.

 

 


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.

Maybe.

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.

Imagine.

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.

Imagine.

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.