Journal

The Turnip Princess - retold by Reg Down

reg down — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 23:46:56 +0000

This German fairy tale was recently released from an archive in Regensburg. It was collected by the historian Franz Xaver von Schoenwerth (1810-1886) in the Bavarian region of Overpfalz over 150 years ago. It was published in the Guardian newspaper in England in spring 2012.

The original tale was, to my mind, rough and fragmentary, and difficult to read. It hardly seemed to hang together as a story, being more a synopsis than a told tale. Yet the images it presented were strong and powerful. They spoke, to my mind, of the interconnections between consciousness, the body and the senses. I rewrote the tale as a way to deepen my connection to the images.

There was once a young prince. He started off small, as most of us do, about as small as a baby, but he soon grew to be tall and handsome. He lived with his mother in a castle upon a high hill. The castle had windows that saw for many miles all around, and the air was filled with light and as clear as glass. But his mother, the queen, was sad and quiet. The King had gone out hunting the day the prince was born and never returned. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air or been turned into a wild beast in the forest.

When the prince came of age he decided to see the world. He wished his mother well and set off on his journey. At first the way was clear and the roads well made, but soon enough the roads became tracks and the tracks became trails and the trails led into a forest where all certain paths vanished or crisscrossed in confusion. At last, tired and weary, he found a cave and curled up against the back wall to spend the night.

In the morning he awoke to find an old woman and a bear standing beside him. The old woman was strangely beautiful. Indeed, she was very beautiful. She told the prince that she’d like him to stay and marry her. But the prince didn’t like her at all. He could not endure her presence and wanted to flee. He tried to leave but found he couldn’t get out of the cave. Every time he walked towards the light he found himself deep inside the cave again.

One day the old woman left and he was alone with the bear. The bear came over, snuffling and snorting, and spoke to him.

“Pull the rusty nail from the wall,” he said, “then I will be freed from enchantment. Place the nail beneath a turnip in a field, and you shall have a beautiful wife.”

The prince gripped the nail in the wall. He gripped it so strongly that the cave shook and the nail cracked loudly like a clap of thunder. Behind him the bear stood up from the ground like a man. He was bearded and wore a crown on his head.

“Now I will find a beautiful maiden,” cried the prince, and putting the nail into his pocket he as able to leave the cave at last.

He journeyed here, and he journeyed there, always looking for a field of turnips.

At last he found one and went into the field. He was about to put the nail beneath a turnip when a hideous monster appeared above his head. He sprang back in terror, dropped the nail, and pricked his finger on a thorny hedge. His finger bled and bled until he fell down senseless.

When the prince awoke, he was no longer in the turnip field. He stood up and touched his face, and found he had a blond beard, long and frizzy. He had slept a long, long time. He searched his pockets but the nail was gone.

So he set off to find what he had lost. Over field and over fen, past rocky cliffs and barren lands he wandered, searching every turnip field he came across, but nowhere did he find what he was looking for. Days passed, nights passed, many of them, and he was a long time a-wandering.

One evening, as the sun was low in the sky he sat on the ridge of a hill beneath a bush. The bush was a flowering blackthorn with red blossoms blooming on one branch.

He reached up and broke off the branch. When he looked down he saw a large white turnip on the ground before him. He stuck the hawthorn branch into the turnip, then lay on the ground and fell asleep.

In the morning the turnip had opened like a nutshell, and in the shell lay the nail. The kernel of the nut was shaped into a picture. He saw a small foot, a slim hand, the whole body, even the fine, lovely hair of a delicate girl.

Taking the nail, the prince journeyed back to the forest again and came at last to the cave. It was empty and no one was there. He took out the nail and struck it forcefully into the wall of the cave. At once the old woman and the bear were there in the cave with him.

“Tell me,” said the prince angrily to the old woman, “where have you put the beautiful girl I saw beneath the blackthorn bush.

But the old woman giggled like a girl, and replied. “You have me, so why do you scorn me?”

The bear nodded and looked at the nail in the wall.

“You are honest,” the prince said to the bear, “but I won’t be fooled by that old woman again.”

“Just pull out the nail,” growled the bear.

The prince reached for the nail and pulled—but he only pulled it half out. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the bear was already half man, and the horrible old woman was becoming the beautiful maiden.

Quickly he drew the nail out of the wall completely, and the prince and the young woman flew into each other’s arms. At last she was freed from the spell that lay upon her. Behind them, on the floor of the cave, the nail burst into flames and burnt up like fire.

The couple turned to the bear. But the bear had changed to his proper self and become the prince’s own father.

Then joyfully, happily, the bride and groom and father-king journeyed out of the forest back to the castle upon the high hill.

The Lamb, the Ram and the Wolf - a fable

reg down — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 04:53:35 +0000

One spring day a lamb came gamboling along. He kicked his heels and bleated for joy.

“I am a lamb,

A lamb am I,

I run and jump

As high as the sky!”

Behind him walked a ram, his mighty horns full curled.

A wolf saw them. He ran out of the forest and grabbed the lamb.

“Wait,” cried the ram. “Eat me. I am bigger and a much better feast.”

The wolf let the lamb go. Off he ran with his tail flicking in the air.

The ram fell to his knees and allowed himself to be eaten—but the wolf ate so much he began bleat and soon he began to turn into a sheep.

"Oh, no!” cried the wolf, seeing his fur get all white and shaggy.

He did his best to be a wolf again—but he couldn’t change back no matter how hard he tried.

The next day the shepherd found him and kept him. He became the first sheep dog in the world. And a good sheep dog he was too, for he understood sheep very well, and never did he eat them—for fear of turning into a sheep completely—and he never did he let the other wolves get close to his flock either—for fear his brothers would turn into sheep as well!

The Two Crows - a fable

reg down — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 19:36:56 +0000

In grade 2, when the child is 8 or thereabouts, fables begin to speak to them. Fables are one step more ‘earthly’ than fairytales and lead the child to ponder the relationships between things and beings. Aesop wrote out of his time, and it interests me what fables we can, or should, write for ours. Here’s one fable that tries to fit that bill. (For a PDF of the tale go to the Stories and Tales page.)

The Two Crows - a fable

Two crows sat on a wall, one white, one black. The white one was rare, the black one was common, and they both said, ‘caw’.

“Caw!” said the white crow, and the black crow replied: “Caw!”

It was dark. They were waiting for someone. Someone they knew. He was called Sun.

“I wish he’d hurry up,” said the white crow.

“He always takes his time,” said the black crow. “Keeps us waiting on purpose. You’d think he’d have better things to do.”

“He thinks he’s a bright spark,” the white crow.

“He thinks he’s bright all right,” said the black crow. “A real smarty pants! All he really does is jump up into the sky every day.”

“That’s right,” said the white crow, “he’s a showoff.”

The crows sat some more, watching the sky intently.

“It’s getting late,” said the white crow.

“Late and getting later,” said the black crow.

The crows hopped from foot to foot impatiently. At last the sky lightened.

“Here he comes,” said the black crow, hopping sideways.

“Caw! Caw!” said the white crow, wiping his beak on the wall. “Not long! Not long!”

A breeze came up and ruffled the crow’s feathers. There were clouds in the sky, layers of them, with gaps of blue shining through. The clouds became red, then rosy-pink.

“Soon,” said the black crow. “Soon.”

“Caw!” said the white crow.

The sun came up. It lit the sky and the clouds glowed brilliantly in many colors. Up the crows flew, flying at the sun.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!” they crowed, flapping wildly into the sky as the sun rose ever higher. Up they flew until they were mere specks.

At last they came back down and landed on the wall.

“That showed him,” said the white crow.

“Sure did,” said the black crow, and they both wiped their beaks in satisfaction.

The Sun and the Butterfly

reg down — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 01:05:13 +0000

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

***

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

reg down — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 01:47:23 +0000

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.

reg down — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 01:38:47 +0000

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

reg down — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 04:20:57 +0000

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

reg down — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 14:30:23 +0000

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.

How the Flat Field became Beautiful

reg down — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 14:53:20 +0000

This tale is a storyteller's tale, i.e., it should be read first before reading or telling aloud to children. This way, your pauses, inflection, gestures etc, will make the story alive and vivid. The punctuation follows a storyteller's format and not a literary one.

This tale would, I believe (since I have not tried it myself), be worthwhile reading at the beginning of a painting class - then let the children go for it. If you try this I would love to know the result!

See the stories tab for the pdf download.

HOW THE FLAT FIELD BECAME BEAUTIFUL

Once upon a time there lived a field. He was flat, flatter than a pancake, and covered with green grass. He did not look very interesting—except to cows, who think flat fields of grass are yummy and delicious.

After a while, and a while is a long time for a field, he got tired of being plain and dull.

“I don’t have so much as a molehill to make me less ordinary than I really am,” he sobbed. “What am I going to do with myself? It’s so plain I’m a plain plain.”

Finally he decided to grow a hump, and with a push here and a shove there, a humpy hill he heaved.

But you cannot put something somewhere without taking it from somewhere else, and so, in another part of the field, a hollow appeared.

Just then a cloud came sailing by. “Oh, look what I see!” he cried. “A hollow!” and he poured rain into the hollow until, quick as a quack, ducks and geese landed splash into the water. This was very pleasing to the field, who was tired of hearing nothing but mooooos all day from the cows. To have the quacks and honks of ducks and geese was a wonderful thing indeed.

After a while, and a while is a long, long time for a field with a humpy hill and hollow full of lake and cows, he decided that the sun was too hot. It shone down from the blue sky all day long and refused to take a rest until nighttime. So on top of the hill he pushed the earth upwards. Up, up, up the brown earth grew and branched out every which way. Then all over the branches grass sprouted with leaves that looked just like leaves. This kept the field’s hilly head much cooler and comfy.

But, of course, you cannot put something somewhere without taking it from somewhere else and a gully appeared in the ground. The lake took one look at the gully and cried “River!” She ran towards it and kept on running for the rest of her life all the way to the sea. And when the fishes saw the river running they swam upstream and lived in the lake underneath the ducks and geese and nibbled their toes.

After a while, and, as I’ve told you before, a while is a long, long, long time for a field with a hill and a tree and a hollow full of lake with quacking ducks and honking geese and nibbling fish and river running all the way to the sea and cows he decided that the sun was magical. When it rained the sun painted rainbows in the sky and the field loved those rainbows more than anything else. He wanted rainbows for his every own. The field thought, and thinked, and thunk. He painted pictures in his mind and grabbed the grass by the roots and squeezed and squeezed. He squeezed and squoozed and squizzled until flowers appeared in all the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet and magenta colors of the rainbow. O how delighted the field was, and very chuffed!

But the tree called out: “What about me? Can’t I have flowers too?”

So the ducks gathered flowers and flew up to the tree and decorated it. Since then, flowers grow on trees all the way until today.

And, as you know, you can’t put something somewhere without someone taking notice. This time it was the queen bee. She came with all her workers and took the nectar from the flowers and made it into honey in a hollow of the tree. Then the field was even more than truly happy and he lives there to this day.

And that, dear Children, is the very end of How the Flat Field became Beautiful.

The Brown Gnome

reg down — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 16:05:26 +0000

Here's a little tale that I began years ago and attended to now and then. It is for little ones and adults that haven't grown up completely.

You can download the tale as a pdf on the Stories page.

***

The Brown Gnome

Once upon a time a gnome lived in amongst the roots of a tree. He was a brown gnome, with brown boots, brown pants, brown jacket, brown cap and long brown beard. Even his eyes were deep dark brown. Only the tip of his nose was red—especially in winter when white frost covered the ground. Then he sneezed and blew his nose, and said: “Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!”

This gnome never left his job. All day he worked for many a long year, making sure the roots had all the food they needed to keep the tree healthy. Not that he complained. He loved his job and was really good at it—that’s why the tree had grown so big and strong and had lived so long.

One day a huge wind huffed and puffed and blew the tree down.

“Crash!” went the tree as the roots were pulled out of the ground.

“Yikes!” cried the gnome as the roof of his house disappeared.

“Golly gosh!” cried the earthworms, wiggling away as fast as their squirms could carry them.

The little brown gnome stood in the hole where the tree once stood. He was covered with dirt from head to foot: dirt in his boots, dirt in his pockets, dirt on his cap, and dirt in his ears.

He climbed out of the hole and looked around. He saw green-green grass, blue-blue sky, and red-red poppies waving in the wind.

“Ah!” cried the little brown gnome in surprise. “What lovely colors! I want some of those!”

He’d never seen anything other than brown before and his eyes were dazzled.

So he took the green from the green-green grass and moss and lovely spring leaves and made his pants and jacket the brightest green you have ever seen.

He took the red from the bright red poppies and made his cap and boots the reddest red there has ever been – except for his nose in wintertime.

He took the blue from the blue summer sky and let it rest in his gentle gaze.

Last of all he put a sparkle of yellow sunlight on the tippy-top of his cap. There it glistened like magic!

Off he went to find a new tree. He looked here, he look there, he looked everywhere, but all the trees thereabouts had brown root gnomes working away and who didn’t need any help.

“Then I shall live in a garden,” he said to himself, and off he went and found a garden. There he became a flower gnome and lived in a house made of petals and drank nectar all summer long. And he still lives there—even until today!

And how do you know if this little gnome lives in your garden? That’s easy! Go outside when the white frost lies on the wintry ground and you will hear him sneezing: “Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!”