The Sun and the Butterfly

Here's a short bedtime story that Farmer John tells his children. It is from the upcoming book, Eggs for the Hunting.

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A butterfly flitted in the sunshine. The sun was golden and the butterfly was golden. The sun soared high in the blue sky, and on the golden wings of the butterfly were two blue circles, each as round as the sun.

The butterfly flitted here, and she flitted there, and the sun held steadily on his course.

The butterfly looked up at the golden sun shining so brightly in the blue sky.

‘God is in you,’ she said, in wonder.

‘And you are in God,’ replied the sun.

Over the earth the sun soared, and from flower to flower the butterfly flew. At last the butterfly found a plant. It had bright orange and yellow flowers, and long green leaves. She landed on a leaf and laid her eggs, one by one, in a row. She laid them underneath where the rain couldn’t find them.

Up above, small white clouds appeared in the blue sky. Sometimes they blocked the sun, sometimes they didn’t. The butterfly kept laying her eggs—now in shadow, now in sunshine.

 At last, her last egg was laid. Her wings grew tired, and she died. The wind came and blew her golden body over the grass, and when the sun went to bed, the clouds were painted all in gold, and circles of bright blue sky shone through.

The Adventure of Willy Worm

Here's a little tale for kindergarten and grade one - enjoy!

Reg Down

Willy was a worm. He was red—a lovely, living red, just like a red worm should be. He was as long as a finger on your hand—your little finger if you’re big, and your big finger if you’re little. Willy could also stretch himself long, and pull himself short—if he pleased. And he pleased, lots of times—that’s how he moved about: stretching and pulling, stretching and pulling, until he got to where he was going.

Willy had a house. It was a hole in the ground, underneath a tree, and he’d made the hole house all by himself. He was proud of it. He’d eaten his way through the soft earth just like we’d eat our way through a room full of chocolate cake (if we were shaped like a wiggly worm, and there really was a whole room of delicious, creamy, sweet and crumbly chocolate cake.) Willy Worm loved the earth and how it tasted. It was yummy! His whole body was like a big taste bud, all puckered up and juicy, and wanting to munch through mealfulls of delicious earth.

One morning, after Willy ate his way through a layer of topsoil, he decided to have dessert. He squirmed out his front door and began to nibble on the pile of leaves which covered his house. Suddenly the leaves were flicked away. A bird with brown feathers, a red breast and a beady eye stared at him. We’ll call him Robin because that was his name.

Robin cocked his head sideways and eyed Willy wiggling and squirming in the bright sunlight and trying to find his front door.

“Chirp,” said Robin merrily. “Chirp! Chirp!” This meant: “Look! Look! A lovely worm!” and he picked Willy up in his beak and flew into the air.

“Help! Help!” cried Willy as loud as he could—but it was no use, Robin held him tight and he couldn’t get free no matter how much he wiggled.

Robin flew into the tree above Willy’s house and landed on the edge of his nest. Instantly, his three younglings started screeching and cheeping and bobbing up and down. They held their mouths wide open, all of them wanting Willy inside their tummies. What a racket they made! Willy shuddered as he looked into their gaping beaks. Robin dropped Willy into the biggest and loudest mouth of all, a fledgling by the name of Freddie, and flew away.

How Willy fought! He wriggled and he wrestled as if his life depended on it (which it did), and Freddie did his best to swallow him, as if his hungry tummy depended on it (which it did)—and Willy won! He squirmed out of Freddie’s beak and fell at his feet. In an instant, before anyone could grab him, Willy wiggled his way amongst the twigs and branches of the nest. All day he lay there, quivering with fear and listening to the loud squawking of the fledglings whenever Robin, or his wife, Robinetta, brought food—food with names like Billy Bug and Greenish Grasshopper and Pudgy-Wudgy Grub. Willy hoped his best friend, Jeffrey, wasn’t there amongst them.

Finally night came and Robinetta sat in her nest. Freddie and his brother and sister, Archibald and Melissa, settled down and were quiet. Willy waited. He lay as still as a mouse until it was dark and the birds were snoring. Then, slowly, carefully, silently, he worked his way out of the nest and wiggled along the branch. The moon was thin and sharp and there was hardly any light, but Willy used his wonderful sense of touch and along the branch he felt his way to the trunk. He tried to climb down, but the trunk was much too steep. He slipped and fell, he bounced from branch to branch, and landed with a thump on a pile of leaves.

“Ooof!” said Willy, the wind knocked out of him. In a moment he came to his senses, and wiggled his way deep into that pile of leaves quicker than he’d ever wiggled in his whole life. Luckily, these were the very same leaves that covered his house. He found his front door, rushed inside and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

After that, Willy kept his head low and only came out at night to eat leaves and grass and such things. Eventually he met his lovely and wiggalicous wife, Wendy. They had at least a hundred children, all of them as wiggly as parents want their children to be. There were Wilhelmenas and Wandas and Wendleberries and Wendlenuts and Wendlefruits and, of course, lots of Willy and Wendy Juniors too.

Last I heard of them the whole family was eating their way to a compost heap in the corner of the garden. Perhaps you’ll meet them there and say hello for me.

There's a tree outside my house.

There’s a tree outside my house.

It’s a big tree, an oak.

It has presence.

For a longtime I thought it was silent, but it is I who did not listen. The tree speaks. It speaks in waves as you walk past; waves which throb outwards like a stone striking a still pool. It’s unmistakable once you feel it. Sometimes the waves are strong. Does the tree track the waxing of the moon? Perhaps it follows the urge of an unknown tide from interstellar space. That would be neat.

The tree has a full-formed crown. It flourishes above my house and basks in the light. They shouldn’t have built so close. After all, the tree was here long before any builder eyed the land. This tree is hundreds of years old. Will we ever be done, destroyers of the garden? The tree was here when there was land, just land, low land flooded yearly by the great river, now hemmed in a mile away.

There’s a tree outside my house. Its canopy creates space, a cathedral, a clear, lucid, almost watery space filled with throbbing. No longer a child I want to live in its branches, to climb, to sit, to view the world and feel held its arms about me.

There’s a tree outside my house, a big tree.

I love her.

The Starry Bird ~ an Easter tale

Here's the first chapter of the next book, The Starry Bird.

Chapter 1: The Egg

 Tiptoes Lightly lay sound asleep in her feather bed. She’s a fairy who lives in an acorn, high up in the branches of a great oak tree. The sun rose over the Snowy Mountains and shone through her window.

“Good morning!” called the sun gently – but Tiptoes stayed fast asleep.

“Good morning, Tiptoes!” called the sun again, shining even brighter. “It’s time to get up, you sleepy head!”

Tiptoes yawned and sat up. She stretched her arms and wings and got out of bed.

“Good morning, Golden One!” she replied to the sun, yawning again. She was still sleepy.

“Knock-knock! Knock-knock-knock!” went her door, startling her awake.

“Who could that be so early in the morning,” wondered Tiptoes, opening her door.

It was Jeremy Mouse.

“You have to come!” he gasped.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tiptoes, taken aback.

“Nothing,” panted Jeremy Mouse, his eyes big and round. “There’s an egg.”

“An egg! What kind of egg?” asked Tiptoes. “Eggs are nothing to get excited about.”

“But it’s huge!” replied Jeremy Mouse, holding his arms as wide as they would go.

Tiptoes smiled. Jeremy Mouse was not very big – when he held his arms wide, it wasn’t very wide at all.

“One of the chickens must have wandered away from Farmer John’s,” suggested Tiptoes.

“I don’t think so,” said Jeremy Mouse, shaking his head. “Please come and see. It’s huger than big. It’s an elephant’s egg for sure!”

“Okay, I’ll come,” said Tiptoes laughing. “I’ve never seen an elephant’s egg!”

Tiptoes stepped out her door expecting Jeremy Mouse to lead the way. But all he did was point.

“There,” said Jeremy Mouse, pointing. “I told you so.”

Tiptoes couldn’t believe her eyes. On the meadow, just below the oak tree, sat an egg. It was far, far bigger than any egg she had ever seen before.

Storytelling in Waldorf World ~ or ~ What happened to me at Waldorf

It’s the winter faire at Camellia Waldorf School, Sacramento, California. The place is packed and busy. I’m shown the room where I’m to tell the story, a kindergarten with large windows flanking the school courtyard. Noisy but do-able. Nichole, a sweet lass I taught at Rudolf Steiner College where I just finished my morning show, is telling me I have a mere 10 minutes to set up after she’s done telling her story. No sweat – I know she’ll help. And she does, ending on time, even a little early. She rearranges the chairs while I rush to get my cloth onto the floor, throw Running River into place, plant the Great Oak Tree, hide Jeremy Mouse and position all the felt puppets properly. The door opens and the door ‘guardian’ asks how long? One minute I say and catch my breath. Then the children enter, about 30 of them with assorted parents hanging out at the back by the sink. The kids sit on the floor in front of my cloth ‘stage’. Packed in like sardines they don’t seem to mind.

The guardian nods. It’s time. A hush falls over the room. As I settle down onto the floor the grade 8 rock band begins their first item. Twannnnnnnngggggg! Thump-thump and off they go! They’re about 50 feet away in the parking lot. I ask the guardian to see if he can get it turned down about 100 decibels. He rushes off … but I have to start. I’m sunk, I think, groaning inwardly. Toast. No competition. Dead meat. I will be speaking with a normal voice – Grumpy Mr. Cactus is the loudest it gets – and I begin and end with a pentatonic cantele, an instrument like a lyre, but, in this instance, with a reduced sound box for an extra soft sound. Great! I hope the door guy will soon make a difference to the decibels (he never does) ... perhaps I’ll salvage the latter half of the story. I really am no contest for the amplified blast dominating the airwaves.

I cannot wait – the children are sitting so expectantly. I start. The cantele sends out its sweet voice and I hope the second row can hear, let alone discern, music. As I begin to tell the tale I notice that all the children are incredibly focused on me. They ‘eat’ every word. The rock and roll, I realize, is toast, no competition, dead meat. What matters is the story. I’m shocked. How can this be? Then, with a slight jolt, I remember. This is a Waldorf school and these are Waldorf kids. I’d forgotten, after five years away, how focused they can be. For the full twenty minutes of the tale there is not a peep. When I end, the rock and roll ends, and all is quiet for a moment. It’s clear these children could easily take more, that they are capable of extended focus. I am impressed, thankful, and somehow curiously humbled.