A Story about a Fairy Dust Morning

There must have been a squall, but all I could think was, "It's a fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning, fairy dust morning. . . "  Repeating the words like a mantra I rushed to find the pants my husband was looking for and set them on a chair where he would see them.  I hauled the boys' sheets down to the laundry, flump, slam, click, glug, whoosh, and bustled upstairs with another basket.  Repeating in my mind, "It's a fairy dust morning. . ." while noise of a family filled weekend morning faded into the background of my consciousness.  I grabbed my notebook, my pen, and slipped to the window to watch, to wait, and to write.

The poem came quickly. . .

Fairy dust morning

Silver sun sneaking through pine boughs

Sprinkling sparkles

Sun kissed saplings

Criss crossing

cold swirls twinkling among the trees

Across the yard

A gift

A poem

A fairy dust morning

Then, I was reminded of another day.  It was a day a lot like this one, but without the clutter of children and chores to distract me.  Long ago, with a backpack tucked with pencils and square slips of paper, a water bottle and wool blanket.  It had been ages since I had sketched, but I was prepared.  I entered the woods. . .

It was slow walking through the snow past the old stone chimney standing sentry.  I took a moment to acknowlege, a silent nod, and keep on, this spot is too close to the road, to travelers, to the real world.  I crossed a little bridge over a brook.  The light, wondrous in the woods today, a luminous dappling on snow and ice covered branches, rocks and half rotten logs.  It was a quiet walk, snow crunching softly, loosened by the sun, beneath my feet and only snowfleas unsettled on the surface to keep me company.  I stopped to marvel at how quickly they danced on cold crystals.  Knowing I could not capture their magic with my pencil, I moved further up a knoll, I would know when the place was right. . .

Then there it was, a welcoming log frozen into the snow, a patch of sun warming this glorious spot surrounded by nothing. . . but forest.  All was quiet while I settled onto the warm wool and leaned against the log, pencils, paper ready, I took a sip of icy water and just looked all around me, at everything, and I waited.  Light glittered, illuminating ice traced branches, and the world seemed to shimmer magically around me as I disappeared, still.  This is the spot.  Soon the winter birds come in fluttering and flitting like sprites, a squirrel chattered back, tail twitching a few trees away.  I am forgotten.

They are here in this enchanted place.  Twinkling sparks of light on limbs and crystals of snow that surround me.  I can feel their gift and begin to slide my pencil around a square of paper tentatively at first.  Then intuition guides me.  I sketch the magic of a quiet morning in the forest where snowfleas dance and sprites and fairies leave precious gifts.  I sketch light, and line and a love of this moment, in hopes that I can wrap them gently and take them home to treasure.  

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the glistening frost slowly gave way, snowfleas no longer danced, and I had sketched my fill for the morn.  I rolled up my wool and tucked into my pack and smiled a thank you to the magical ones who shared a gift with me today.  Then I walked taller out of the woods, off the knoll, across the brook, past the old stone chimney standing sentry.  Back to the road I walk, toward travelers, the real world, and home. . .

Yes.  This was another one of those days.  A fairy dust morning, a fairy dust morning, a fairy dust morning. . .They left me a gift enchanted with magic.  I am wrapping it up here to pass along to you.

The memories of that morning are attatched carefully to pink paper, bound loosely with smooth ribbon, placed in a basket of other lovelies for safe keeping