Foxes and queens and fairy stories

In January of 2012, I was struck one morning by an insistent urge to write a story, a proper childish fairy story about magic and such. I used to lose myself in such world’s quite often as a child and remembered in that moment how nice it had felt.

So I sat down, with a notepad and pen and I just started to write, like I had as a child. I just started and happily allowed what flowed through my hand. Writing for the joy of it, like dancing or running, just for the joy of the sensation. A story pouring through me.

Just as suddenly as I had begun, I was finished. I felt great, it was like arriving home after a wonderful walk in the woods. I closed the notepad, got up and had some breakfast with my man.

Three years later I happened upon this notebook, in a small suitcase stuffed with other similar notebooks (molesskine, A4, squared paper! buff/black paperback is the fave). I had spontaneously begun the job of reading through three years of notebooks, to pan for the gold of the souls journey I had been on during that time.

I came across this story and read it back for the first time since writing it. What a revelation. I entered a world that was new to me, and a story I had not yet known, but one that I had in fact lived in the intervening years. The story I had written with such casual delight three years ago, now read back to me as a profound allegory for a transformative period of my life which had followed from the time of writing.

Today, I feel this story is complete, this chapter, I am no longer in it and it is no longer my life. It is no longer my story, it is a universal one I feel. I wanted to let it free into the world. Free from the notebook and the dusty suitcase, to find those who seek it or those that it seeks.

I know that stories find us, rather than the other way around, This one found me, and now our work together is done.  I invite you to meet this little friend of mine and see how you get along!

The foxy queen in the picture is my beautiful and talented little sister Eloise White – I made this digital portrait of her for her birthday, now I realise she is the image of my woodland queen! I’m hoping she will animate this for me one day…

Red Fox in Winter


There once was a very little girl. She had delicate white hands that quivered when she spoke and big pale eyes. Her hair was pale golden and smooth like glass. She liked to walk in the wild edges of the garden, just out of sight, but was afraid to go beyond the edges into the dark tangly thorn bushes.

When the sun we as high and nobody was home she would lie in the very middle of the grass and feel the earth spinning round beneath her. One day she was lying with her eyes shut tight, when she felt a velvety soft,warm sensation on her cheek. She opened her eyes and gasped. Oh!

A great stag stood looking down at her, all russet and rippling with soft,dark eyes and majestic felted horns.

“Come with me to the woods, if you like” he seemed to say, “I’m king of the woodland and you will be safe with me.”

The very little girl’s hands quivered with excitement. All manner of thoughts running round in her head made her feel so dizzy and confused, she was frozen to the spot.

“OK, I see you are too frightened” said the stag, turning his regal back to her, and walking loftily back to the dark, tangly woodland, disappearing from view.

The very little girl felt so sad and alone as the stag disappeared from view. Why oh why was she so shaky and stuck? In her confusion and distress, she cried and fell asleep.

When she awoke she felt a warm,soft sensation like being cradled in a rosebud, and warm heavy air around her, dense with a heady aroma. She slowly opened her eyes to see a golden light all around her, soft and gently pulsing. She looked down where she lay and – ha! – it was a rosebud that cradled her so tenderly.

A fragrant breeze lifter her hair.

Just then a low rumble approached and she felt the rosebud quiver as her own hands had done. Again before here as the soft, velvet muzzle of the stag – but so big that he filled almost all of the sky!

“It seems I am a very,very,very little girl” she thought to herself, with some alarm and a great deal of wonder.

The stag spoke in a clear, low voice.

“I knew you would come, you wanted to so badly that you dreamed yourself into a fairy noon and entered the woods on a sunbeam.”

The very, very, very little girl was perplexed. Fairy noon? Sunbeam? Can it be a dream? She glanced around her and saw -in the shimmering golden haze – ten, twenty, thirty or more little rosebuds, and in each a very very very little girl was stretching and awakening. Lacy silver wings gently warming in the afternoon’s golden sun. A fairy noon.

“But why am I here?” She wondered aloud, perplexed. “Why so small?”

The stag simply stared into her and said:

“Just remember three things. A fairy noon can last as long as you let it. Sunbeams are made of love. Rose petals fall and thorns draw blood.”

With that he gracefully turned his head and walked away into the deep tangle of the woods. The little girl’s pale, golden head felt fuzzy and muddled, the deep scent of the rosebud calling her back to its softly swaying centre. She felt the warm sun on her cheeks and her eyelids grew heavy again.

“Sunbeams are made of love…” She remembered the stags words. How lovely it felt here, bathed in love, the fizzy hum of fairy wings rising all around.

She slept again, and waking briefly into a dream she was aware of sliding a nd spinning slowly downwards, like on a velvety soft helter shelter. A buzzing of voices, tinkling like little bells, chimed around her. Rainbows like sunlight crystal retractions glanced across her eyes as she swooped and swirled.

When she awoke she became aware of a gentle tugging on her golden locks. Gazing sleepily around her she saw with astonishment two reddish gold fox cubs softly pawing at her hair, which was strewn with tiny blue forget-me-nots and scented with pungent lavender.

She was draped in a whisper-thin blue silken gown and lying on a bed of Rose petals. The cubs were like little puppies, much smaller than she. “I must be my right size again” she thought, “only a little bit little”.

She sat up and looked around her, absentmindedly scooping the cubs into her lap. She was resting at the edge of a great wood. As she turned around to see what lay on her other side, she jumped with surprise to see a full grown fox standing close by her. The cubs wriggled free from her grasp and ran to their mother.

“So you are awake, dear Queen” said the fox with her dark eyes and twitching tail.
“I am your Queen?” She darted back. “Who made it so?” A strange and unfamiliar timbre and tone reverberated in her ribcage as she spoke. Her spine was straight as a spear and her hands quivered not even a little.

“Yes you certainly are” nodded the fox, slowly and steadily, gazing at her “and my Queen, you made it so”

“What of the fairy noon?” She wondered to herself.

“It lasts as long as you let it” echoed the fox. “Now. My Queen, we have much to attend to. The woodland realm depends upon your leadership and guile, for we are entering a new phase of the moon, and the twilight times are long and deep.”

The regal queen tossed her golden locks and stepped forward, chin out, eyes ahead, hands quivering imperceptibly (if at all). She knew not where she must go, but she knew that it was ahead of her, and not behind, that her duties lay.

In that moment a shadow flitted across the emerald moss carpet of the glade, and she felt again the presence of the stag. She knew that he was near, but that this was her time, her test. And he was watching.

At the edge of the clearing was there was an old wooden signpost. A white arrow indicating a dark and tangled tunnel into the woods. She looked closely to see the words: “Your Majesty… Your Fate” carved and weather-worn in the white wood.

The slightest shiver ran through her and the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck tickled and tingled. The fox glanced up at her and pressed ever so slightly closer to her cool, bare leg. Nudging, comforting.

The Queen took a deep, slow breath. “And so we go” she declared to her deepest self, and set off into the dark tangly tunnel.

After really rather a time of twisting and turning, almost tumbling down the windy woodland tunnel,the Queen heard a distant fanfare… Of tulips and daffodils, Mother. Nature’s brass band… carried to her elfin ears on the wind.

The deeper into the narrow darkness she journeyed, the brighter, lighter and more expansive the way ahead appeared to her – even as she felt the tangly tendrils of the tunnel closing around her.

Just at the point where she could barely lift her leg through the dense surrounds, a sort of pop and a whizzzzz…..

… The tunnel and the tangles and all that had surrounded her fizzled and faded like Sherbert on the tongue. A radiant peachy white light and an exquisitely silky, soft scented air filled All of Everything.

Again those brassy harmonies sounded, but muted,softer – like a bumblebee bothering a Buttercup on a lazy summer breeze. And she could feel it…the fuzzing and buzzing… Melting in the very middle of her chest like a cough sweet – warm and syrupy soothing…

Then clear as day, the stag walked right up to her.

The Queen pulled herself up straight before his majestic presence – instantly realising her self was all but straight, her form now ever so drifty and spacious. Her tumbling locks tumbled on and on into forever.

She gathered her glow in the direction of the stag and then she noticed, lain across his back, a very little girl. Not moving, barely there.

The stag looked at her with deep bronze eyes full of intensity.”will you take her?” He seemed to say.

The Queen of All Everything, in the ether of a peachy dawn, reached out with all of her Self, and scooped up her Form like a precious doll.

“This very little girl,” she thought. “This very littlest of girls.”
“She is the acorn and I am the oak. She is my root and my fruit. Let us be One.”

As I guide through the glade. As I stumble in the bushes. As I quiver and shake by river and lake…

As I am. I am All.

I am great, I am small.
I am the queen, I am the stag.
I am the blades of grass beneath my back. I am the heat of the sun on my cheek.

I am the part and the wholes. The heart and the hand.
The light and the endless night.


When love becomes the Loch Ness monster

There are several people in my life who I tell almost every time we connect, that I love them dearly. Lucky them, and lucky me.

Then there are a few with whom, it feels so, so loaded. Loaded like a gun that could kill us both and splatter our guts up the wall if it misfires.

To be clear, this is not because I do not love them, it is because somehow the idea of  love has become the Loch Ness monster in the room and the focal point of the paranoid paparazzi of past hurts that roam around inside me seeking to expose and debunk it. Love has taken on a mythical status and a hype machine has activated around it. To believe in it, to seek it, to try to capture it, to be sure of it…

Most people have a picture in their head of what ‘Nessy’ looks like. A few claim to have truly encountered it in the flesh, first hand, and write books about it and exhibit galleries of blurry photographs of it. They say it dwells in the depths we cannot fathom, and only a chosen few can take a glimpse of it. This creature is widely acknowledged to be immense and terrifying, but by all accounts benign – despite a fearsome exterior.

These are the connections in which I have felt the most the resistance to offering my humble expressions of love in the moment, fully aware of their imperfection and shades of grey, and the bits of fluff that might have got stuck on them in the bottom of my bag on my way to bring them to you. I’ll spend too long looking at them, dusting them off, and decide they are not sufficient. This can’t be  it, this can’t be enough, this can’t be right.

I’ve deconstructed love like so many castles in the sand. I know only what it is not. I am left with that which the tide cannot take away.

I’m over it now, the hunting and the hiding both.

Here I am, unremarkable and utterly exquisite in the light of day. Here is my imperfect, fluffy love, presented unexpectedly in unusual gift wrap, tossed into your hands like a hot potato as I bolt for the bus, sung in your ear while you are trying to sleep, thrust in your face while you are watching a movie or trying to read, spilling out of the containers you try to catch it in.

There is no shame in it, I have judged it too harshly. Trying to hold my love to saintly, mystical standards, contain it in carefully constructed corrals, make it sit quietly in the corner and hide all its colours under an old coat – for days, months, years.

My love in its chosen expression comes to you like a butterfly or a bluebird. Free and exquisite in the moment. Embodiment of soul. Essence of beauty. Coming to land gently on you and bless your heart, drink a little nectar, bask in the sunshine.

Love is simply me, as I am, when I am open, to you. Just gorgeous.

I recorded this little burst of song on a whim, whilst pottering in the kitchen and feeling the feels. It’s not planned, it is not perfect.  Real feels from me to you. I love you, don’t forget it 💕




Suddenly it’s easy



How do I know what to write? What to say? What to do?

How can I have more energy? Simplify my life? Discover my purpose? Fulfil my mission?

Be more real. No effort required.

A beautiful human once invited me to work on a project with him, I wanted to say yes, feeling his trust, but I was concerned that I didn’t have the requisite skills. His response was simple, sincere and powerful:

The only skill you need is realness. If it’s not working out, be more real.

Encountering a real human, who refuses to step out of their own truth to enter yours, can feel challenging. There can be a moment of feeling unmet. Likewise standing before another in the truth of who and how I am right now, and not shapeshifting to meet their expectations or fit into their comfort zone, can feel stark and abrupt.

This is the starkness of reality, the sledgehammer of truth, the blinding light of authenticity. It feels quite phenomenal.

Do or do not. There is no try.  ~ Yoda

Trying to be real is not it. It is what happens when all the trying stops. Stepping into my truth is not it. It is where I find myself when I do not step out. Becoming authentic is not it. It is my capacity to just be and to realise nothing more is coming.

It is being at home.

It is really easy.

What is true for me when I am at home in my self? Whatever my question, this is the answer.








Live streams only – no more reruns


My new blogging practise, fortuitously forced by techno gremlins, is to write free flow entries straight in to the box. No copying and pasting, no dredging up old stories. No drafts.

This comes hot on the heels of losing my entire website and all its content not too long ago.

Just before my website took a catastrophic dive into a fatal error, I had decided that what I probably needed to do was to take down most of the content and then start afresh, reposting only what still felt resonant. Perhaps I needed a nudge to see that none of it was truly resonant any longer!

Feeling at peace with this event, I decided to start anew with something really simple. My intention was to just blog my experiences in as direct and real a way as I could. Starting from now, eyes forward, no rehashing old poems or digging up past dramas. No safe, stale familiar favourites.

I head over to WordPress to set up a simple structure and discover I already have an account set up, and a blog template ready to go, and even a strap Line! A forgotten gift to my future self from my self three years ago!

I write my first post, all shiny nowness. Then I’m reminded of that one story… It’s so good, it’s time to share it with the world. So what if I wrote it three years ago, it’s better than anything I have to say now…

Computer says no! Thou shalt not copy and paste. Not anymore… Time to flow for real,speak straight from the heart in the moment, no more digging out my best bits and slotting my true presence in the moment behind a highlight of some other lifetime.

This right now is the moment,these are the words, this is the message. First draft,first cut, real raw deal. Action!


Drop everything and play in the sun like a butterfly…


It is time to create and to light up. Light up and the creativity pours out of its own accord. I  don’t sit down to be creative, I just fall in love with life in this moment and my heart starts to sing.

Women need to be in love: with themselves, with a man, with a child, with a project, with a job, with their country, with the planet, and – most important – with life itself. Women in love are closer to enlightenment. For angels and lovers, everything sparkles. ~ Marianne Williamson, A Woman’s Worth.

I am in love with beautiful me, with life, with the butterflies, with this time and place, with the sunshine, with my own heart’s song. So in love with it. My own Joy feels like heaven to touch. It’s the edge of almost unbearable pleasure, tasting my own joy like electric nectar inside and holding it in my body.  This abundant bliss fountain in my body.It is the source of everything else.

I do recognise the privelege of this moment. The privelege of feeling this. It is not a common thing, although it ought to be. Our own joy is freely available to us in every moment of life. Revelling in our own existence like wriggly cats on a sunny patio, is an option in every single moment. Yet I do recognise, it is a rare privelege.

What keeps us from this Joy? Put it down right now, and play in the sunshine of your own magnificence like a butterfly, just for a change. Why not?

I do recognise, so much of what I am making visible here is taboo. The sweetest taboo. Delighting in my own self.

When the immense drugged universe explodes in a cascade of unendurable colour. And leaves us gasping naked. This is no more than the ecstasy of chaos. Hold fast with both hands to that royal love. Which alone, as we know certainly, restores fragmentation into true being. ~ Robert Graves, Ecstasy of Chaos