May Day
When the world becomes new
I write this today as the winter winds continue to haunt Minnesota, almost playfully blowing away Beltane. No, I said to Mr. Wind, for it is Beltane (May day) and magic and spring are soon to return. As Samhain (Halloween) salutes a time of sleep, Beltaine beckons us to LIVE! In Minneapolis, where I live, we have a wonderful festival run by the Heart of the Beast theatre. On May day, they have a parade and celebration where with great costuming and marvelous festivities we celebrate spring.

But, today it was COLD. (tis Minnesota, after all and Mr Wind did not grant my request.) And so, I stayed home and celebrated Beltane in my own way. I dressed in my finest robe and took a bath in lavender oil. I asked my friends to bring me flowers.

And, I put out lovely shining things for the fairies to welcome them back to our beautiful world. Fairies love bright shiny things, marbles, crystals, colorful rocks. So, my friends, enjoy this most wonderful day.

Celebrate. Use candles and scents and soft robes and maybe put out a tiny crystal for the fey ones. Enjoy. Be happy. Spring is here!

Remembering Fairies
Grandpa and me
"If you sit very quietly and look out of the corner of your eye," my grandfather whispered, "you might just see a fairy."

We were a peculiar pair, Grandpa and me. I was a sickly child, unable to run and play with the other children, and he was known as the town "eccentric", a man with a booming voice and a gentle manner who never could hold a job or fit in with what passed for society in the small Minnesota town of Hinckley. Nobody could ever really tell me what was wrong with Grandpa, only that he had returned from World War I by way of what they called a sanatorium. Since that time, he had lots of time to sit quietly and watch fairies.

We would walk to the Grindstone River, across the dirt road from my grandparent´s tiny farm. After we reached the riverbed, we turned to the right and went up a small bluff to a hidden knoll. It was filled with ferns and lichen-covered rocks. Grandpa taught me to search for the johnny-jump-ups, lilies-of-the valley and jack-in-the pulpits that were hidden amid the fallen logs and ancient stones.

It was truly a mystical place and one where it seemed only right to talk in whispers. It was our secret spot, where our club of two would hold weekly meetings. Sitting was one of Grandpa´s best skills, or at least that´s what Grandma always said. He taught me to sit for hours, looking at the glade with "gentle eyes." I learned to unfocus my sharp young vision until the green of the ferns melted and flowed into the shimmering of the air. And then, when the only sound was my own breath, I saw my first fairy.

Fairies are shy creatures. Grandpa said they were curious and couldn´t help but come to see why such huge creatures were in their world. "But," he said, "you never look directly at a fairy. They are very private and hide their mysteries beneath their wings."

The fairies were our special secret, Grandpa said. Seeing them was a reward for being still. "Only very unique people like us," he said, "would have the patience or the time to catch a glimpse of their veiled world." I agreed. Even at five years of age, I was fairly certain no one would believe that I had actually seen fairies. And, of course, I already knew that no one listened to Grandpa at all.

In 1956, Interstate 35W was lauded as the just what the state needed to link the cities of Minneapolis and Duluth. I wasn´t so sure, since it ran directly through the middle of our living room. Progress won, and we were forced to move our house to the north side of the freeway, while my grandparent´s home remained on the south side. No longer could I walk a few feet to visit them--a monstrous fenced strip of concrete barred my way.

And the fairies? There were no environmental impact studies in the 1950s. The Grindstone River was raped, stripped and destroyed. The fairy glen was demolished, the ferns ripped out, the johnny-jump-ups trampled.

"Where did they go?" I asked my grandfather. He could only cry.

To be frank, I had almost forgotten about the fairies and the freeway. Grandpa was buried not too far from his former farm, which is now a parking lot for a casino. I don´t go to Hinckley anymore. But recently, a friend was telling me about a film released about young girls and fairies, and I remembered. I remembered the colors, the smells and the sounds of the glade. And, with my child´s eye, I remembered the fairies.

So, where did they go? What sort of environmental impact study do we conduct before we destroy their habitat? Are engineers looking at glades with gentle eyes before they bring in the bulldozers? When we build our beautiful houses on those wooded lots we all want, are we thinking that we may be displacing a fairy family? Or, are they hiding in my garden, wincing at the noise of my lawnmower and gasping for air when I fertilize the lawn?

This summer, I´m going to sit quietly in my yard, soften my eyes and see if any fairies are left in my life. I wonder if they´ll recognize me? I wonder if I can really sit for hours on the lawn without doing something? I wonder if my neighbors will commit me?

I hope we have left enough magical spaces for the fairies to live, even in the suburbs. I think we need them.