I was born on the first full moon of the year. I've always gone a little subdued through the days between Christmas and my birthday, between the sun and the moon. They hold a special childhood magic for me. So today, forgive me, I'm posting something from long ago ...
When I open my door lately, there is a bear waiting for me. How do these things happen? I have always been Rose Red, rather than the lovely Snow White - a second sister kind of person. But I'm learning that there is a small and secret magic which can be done in the shadows I spend my days sweeping out while the Snow Whites of this world gallivant on adventures, accumulating princes, winning book deals, eating poisoned apples just so they can be saved.
And I understand now, in my very slow-thinking way, that the bear doesn't just bring me gifts from the forest, the scent of rivers and rain, and his own shy wild smile; he comes to me for medicine.
I never knew before what I now know, that my writing is a two-way street. A gift for me, an elixir for the muse. We sustain each other. Maybe that's why I can't stop writing. Because I love him and want to keep opening my door to find him standing there, all dark-eyed and uncouth, bringing me safe apples, tales of things I have never done while I sit with my broom and my papers in this small house, grinning at me in a way which reminds me that beneath the bearskin is a prince more ancient than written history.
I wonder - if he healed, would he still come visit me? I think when I accept the answer to that, then he will finally change shape, and I will see myself too for what I have always been.