The Write Fit

Writing is something I have loved to do ever since I learned how to write the alphabet. I liked listening to other people’s stories and writing them down. I loved handwriting and looking at how many different ways my classmates wrote their As, Bs, Os and Zs. I liked writing about the things around me.
 

I was much more of a listener and writer than a speaker. I don’t know if this was attributed to my own insecure feelings that when I spoke, people tended not to listen to me entirely or that they appeared bored after a few sentences. Or maybe that was simply my perception of how I thought people viewed me. But I accepted this and was careful choosing friends and what I would tell them about myself. I did have my reasons for keeping several things about my life private, but I will have to share those reasons in later entries.

I excelled in writing and interviewing as a youth. My mother said I always asked so many questions. My pseudo Uncle, Sydney Lang, who I have had many adventures with in my youth, suggested I pursue a degree in journalism. I did. I felt taking that route in my education would open doors to new pathways and areas to explore.

Upon graduation I was hired immediately by a struggling newspaper and assigned to cover health and wellness topics. My desk was in a dim corner by the janitor’s closet, nowhere near a window, and my chair was uncomfortably lumpy where the fabric and padding had worn thin. My conditions seemed neither well nor healthy.

The newspaper was on the verge of bankruptcy and it was bought by a larger media company. We were converted to a generic online news mill that sent articles out to major websites. I soon realized I was bored out of my mind. I was tired of having to write watered down articles containing the right buzz words which people might type into a search engine. That job just didn’t fit me right.

I looked for other work. An online magazine gave me a shot with longer article limits and assigned topics that suited my style better. I needed to get out of the office to find the stories. Most of these assignments involved interviewing people, which I loved doing. It was then that I adopted the motto: Everyone has a story worth recording.

I wrote lots of stories. I interviewed singers, comedians, producers, businessmen and business women. I wrote about top spots to shop and dine. I wrote features about the homeless in Chicago, crime on the west side, and vacationing on the Lakes. I did a lot of walking, local traveling and writing.

One late afternoon, I entered the “L” ready to take the long commute home from downtown Chicago to the Dempster stop  in Evanston. I found myself looking for a seat. My eyes rested on an open seat next to an older woman with bright box-dyed red hair, ruby painted nails, and wearing a canary colored coat. I wasn’t sure if I should yield or stop. I took the seat next to her and immediately inhaled her strong, powdery perfume and muffled a cough.

When our eyes met, out of politeness, I nodded and said, “how do you do?”

She smiled and said, “oh, I’m doing fine…”

She began to tell me she just had her nails redone in a darker red since she was due for a change. Then she said she was going Macy’s to find a new pair of shoes to match the outfit hidden under her coat. She went on some tangent about a friend of hers who needs better shoes but hates to shop and then something about day shoes versus night shoes.

I began looking around when my eyes rested on my feet. I suppose my eyes sometimes take me places I’d rather not be and other times to places where I am more comfortable. In this case I was in an uncomfortable seat wearing comfortable shoes.

The red canary continued to talk and I honestly didn’t remember what else she said until she gently patted my knee and asked, “excuse me, are you listening?”

“Hum?” I said as my head bobbed back and my eyes rested on her face. There was a faint sparkle in her eyes surrounded by globby mascara and rough eye liner perched on top of two ultra-rosy cheeks.

 “Where did you go?” she asked.

Go? Where did I go? Where was she going? Where were we going together? These questions quickly raced through my mind and all I could answer was, “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Shoes. Good luck finding that perfect pair.”

I nodded to her and smiled. She smiled back and thanked me. As the train came to a stop, I mechanically rose from my seat and exited the closest set of doors not even knowing where I had gotten off exactly.

Those questions returned: Go? Where did I go? Where was she going? Where were we going together? I sat on a bench with my hands in my pockets to keep warm while waiting for the next train since I had left the last one too early.

I stewed over my experience with that woman. As I said before, I like listening to people. I like their stories. I like writing them down. But that woman could not hold my interest if she was the last person on the planet with a mouth. But then again, maybe I caught her on a bland topic and she really is a wonderfully interesting lady if I gave her more than a few minutes of my ears on a train ride to Evanston.

Then I worried how my own stories and experiences may be boring or strange to others like hers was to me at that moment. I justified in my mind why I usually keep my stories to myself. I continued to stew on the bench. But the next experience I had while waiting on the platform sparked a clicking in my head like the train on the rails. I realized that my motto, Everyone has a story worth recording, was due for editing.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted.

“What are you wearing?”

I heard a voice next to me. Sitting on the ground in a gap between my bench and another bench was a Golden Retriever with a service harness on his back and panting with a smile as he looked up at me. His master sat bundled in a fuzzy coat, striped scarf and leather gloves on the other bench.

“Excuse me? Did you say something?” I asked speaking over the dog.

The man on the bench simply sat there quietly looking off the platform toward the gray sky and dim row of houses.

Indigo C. Beacon - Copyright 2000

“He didn’t say anything. He can’t hear you. I asked what you are wearing,” the dog said.

I looked down at the Golden Retriever. “Oh, my mistake,” I replied. “I usually speak to people, but you aren’t the first dog I’ve ever had a conversation with either.”

It was happening again. It is something that I had grown uneasily familiar with since I was a child. Somehow, sometimes, I can speak to animals, or they speak to me and I can hear and understand them. Strange, I know. This is one of those things I have kept a secret for many years, because as a child when I would say the bird or cat told me so, people wouldn’t believe me.

“I’m wearing orange corduroy pants, blue leather shoes, and my favorite plaid overcoat.” I sat up straight and proud.

“I may be color blind, but that outfit stinks,” the dog chuckled.

“I know dogs have a strong sense of smell. So are you saying I smell bad, or I have terrible taste?”

“No. You smell fine. Smell like you showered this morning, put on a light moisturizer to guard your face and hands from the weather, and your teeth were recently brushed.” He sniffed, “or you carry your toothbrush with you. Something like that.”

 “You are an intelligent dog. It’s both. I brushed my teeth when I left the office and I carry my toothbrush with me. What would you suggest I change about my outfit?” I asked, looking down at my lap and feet.

He cleared his throat and gruffed,“ at least lose the shoes. They are so out of style and are probably not even worth chewing on.”

Shoes again, I thought. “But they are comfortable. I love these shoes,” I said a little sheepishly.

“Just because you love them doesn’t mean you should wear them with everything. I help my master choose his clothes every day. One tap of my nose to his hand means yes and two taps means no. I’ve been helping him dress for years. He is deaf and nearly blind. He trusts my taste and my eyes,” the dog said frankly.

I looked at the man on the bench next to him. The dog had a point. He dressed well even though he couldn’t see himself in a mirror clearly or hear the opinions of others passing by.

Speaking of passing by, a young couple looked at me strangely as they walked down the platform while the dog and I talked. I couldn’t tell if it was my outfit that caught their attention or that I was speaking to a dog. I thought of the woman on the train and how I judged her appearance and that she must have been judging my appearance at the same time. After all, since we had no prior experience with each other there would be nothing more to judge than our looks.

I realized that if I troubled myself so much with what everyone thought all the time that I would go crazy and not enjoy life at all. Opinions and advice should be taken like medicine. We should be cautious and ingest the right doses at the right time and for the right maladies. Sometimes the medicine is hard to swallow. Sometimes it is totally unnecessary, but other times we must take it for the better.

In my case, I had come down with a bad case of The Shoes. It took a bright haired lady and loyal dog to drop enough hints that my shoes may be better worn at home and that my public appearance could stand to be freshened up a bit.

The caution light beamed on the platform as a train approached. Before standing to leave, I turned to the dog and said, “thank you for your advice,” and scratched him behind his ears. “Is this your train too?” I asked.

“No we are on the next one. You are very welcome and thanks for listening,” the dog replied. “It’s not every day that I get to have an understandable conversation with a person.”

We both smiled as I turned to board the train.

So that day when I couldn’t decide whether to yield or stop, I ended up doing both and concluded that my motto must be improved a bit. My new motto became: Everyone has stories worth recording, stories worth ignoring, and that includes me. 

Yes, for the first time my soul was filled with confidence that things in my life, my thoughts, and many of my experiences are actually pretty incredible. They are worth writing down and sharing with others. I had to get over that fear of being ignored, rejected, or looked at as weird.

That was the last day I stepped on a train with those worn out, blue leather shoes. It was the first day I decided to record one of my own stories, regardless of it including a real talking dog.

Mishap in the Mangroves

I came home to a cold, wet winter in January; typical for Chicago. It was quite dismal this time. I sat sulking, looking out my window too often, and wishing my mangled ankle would heal a bit faster, so I could voyage again.

Forgive me, I am getting ahead of myself. That's how it happened too. I was ahead of myself when I injured my left ankle while sloshing through the Florida wetlands. I was in a shallow wet spot in a thick patch of red mangroves while following a bald eagle in the sky. Bald Eagles are majestic creatures and I hoped to interview one on this trip.



Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2015

Instead, I had an eerie feeling that I was being followed by something and turned just in time to see a water moccasin ready to strike.

Adrenaline shot through my limbs and I jumped backward, catching my foot between the twisted roots of a red mangrove. I fell, splashing into the murky water. Pain instantly surged through my leg. Had I been bitten? I could not tell.

The stocky snake looked sharply into my eyes and lunged again. I instantly hit him on the snout with my binoculars.

He coiled back hissing and said, "You nassty sstranger, why did you attack me?"

I shuddered and yelled, "I will not tolerate being poisoned by your bite! I did not threaten you in the first place."

I hoped my warning was clear enough, because all I could do was try to intimidate him at that moment. I was caught in a natural trap and one caused by my own foolishness.

One of the first rules of exploration is to observe your surroundings and then proceed. Instead, I had been proceeding with my eyes fixed on the sky without observing what was right around me.

Suddenly, the bald eagle I was tracking swooped down from the sky and grabbed that water moccasin with her sharp talons and screeched that I should run. Glancing at my trapped foot, I knew I could not run. I could not move my ankle and my flesh was torn and bleeding against the exposed mangrove roots that were drying in sun above the tide.

Now, in case you didn't know, I like pickles. But I prefer to eat pickles rather than be in a pickle. In this case, I was in a pickle and feeling like a pickle as I sat in the briny waters with my throbbing leg. Luckily, I had not been bitten by that horrid snake, but the sting from my injury felt like a snake bite.

My canoe was only a few meters away, but it seemed so far at the moment. I pulled a sharp knife from my soggy back pack and began sawing through the leathery mangrove stilt roots around my trapped foot.

At last I was free and I held my leg above the water against another exposed root as I pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket, tying it tightly around the wound. I knew I needed to get out of that spot quickly or I would be bait for another, larger predator; the crocodile.

I already sensed that I was being watched again by some hidden creature and knew I needed to move faster.



Indigo C. Beacon - Copyright 2015

While listening and watching more closely to my surroundings, I carefully made my way back to the canoe and climbed in. The sun beat down on my sandy skin and a light breeze tickled my ears as I caught my breath and headed back to civilization.

I caught a taxi and went to the closest emergency room. Fortunately I did not brake my ankle, but it was badly sprained and cut in several places requiring 30 stitches. I was prescribed a strong antibiotic and instructed to keep my wounds clean.

Thus my wetlands voyage was cut short and I abjectly flew back to Chicago, feeling as dismal as the slushy weather here. In spite of my injury I enjoyed winter in the wetlands. You see, wetland winters are dryer, if you can say dry in Florida. It is simply a time when water levels are lower and there is less rain fall.

I know what you are thinking; another rule of exploration is not to go on adventures alone. You are right. If one of my friends or a more skilled Everglades traveler had been with me, the snake might have attacked him instead and left me alone. Then I still would have whacked the snake on the snout, dragged my companion back to the canoe, and heroically brought us to safety.

Fine, that may not have been the outcome either, but I can still imagine can't I? At least I lived another day and had another story to tell. As my trusted readers, I encourage you to enjoy my adventures but definitely learn from my actions and become wiser explorers yourselves.

Cat Countinuation

Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2015

I once stepped on a sleeping cat.
He twice howled and whaled.
I thrice jumped away startled.
He forice flicked his tail.
I fivonce said I was sorry.
He sice scowled and frowned.
I sevonce gave him some gravy.
He octice licked his claws.
I ninonce plead his forgiveness.
He tenonce pounced on my face.
I finally gave up on that grouchy cat.
I lost count after elevice.

A Little Bird Told Me…

When a person starts talking to me by saying, “A little bird told me…” I can’t help but interrupt and ask which bird told them. Because depending on which bird spoke to them will determine whether their information is worth believing or just an entertaining tale. 

For example, if I had a conversation with a hummingbird, I would know instantly that the hummingbird should not be taken too seriously. She is a beautifully elegant creature, but she would rather have fun and cast judgment instead of standing still long enough to get more information about any situation.

Now, if an emperor penguin told a person something that they felt was important enough to relay to me, I would give my full attention. An emperor penguin is one incredibly loyal bird. Any animal willing to freeze to death while protecting an egg filled with life perched on his feet in dark Antarctica is worth taking seriously.

A penguin doesn’t have time to spin tales or gossip. Life is too uncertain for a penguin. He cannot worry himself over what he said earlier in the day about something or someone that might come back to haunt him in the frozen night, while huddling close to his comrades, hoping not to be pushed out of the protective circle.

Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2015

Pretty Flowers and Sasha Grace

I was home for a season resting and writing about my last adventure away when I found myself on the patio sipping lemonade and noticing Mazie. She was sitting at her little picnic table in her yard and coloring in the sun. She had a bucket of crayons to one side and a rather thick school folder to the other side.

“Hello Mazie,” I said, “I see it's a fine day for coloring.”

“Hi Indigo,” Mazie said, “I’m drawing caterpillars. I’m trying to make mine look like this one.” She pulled out a book from under her paper. She held up The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.

“That’s one of my favorites,” I said. “But don’t be afraid to make your caterpillar in your own way.”

“Okay, Indigo,” Mazie said as she continued coloring.

“Mazie, what is in that fat folder under your elbow?” I asked.

 Mazie’s eyes brightened. She shot up, bumping the table and sending some crayons rolling. “It’s all my favorite pictures that I ever drewn!”

She rushed across the yard to show me. I began looking through her drawings, all with her own lovely Mazie touch. She commented on one after another when one picture caught my eye. It was a crayon drawing of a person with big blue eyes, three orange curls on its head and a red smile. On this person’s chest was a heart with a thick black circle lining the inside of the heart. Inside the circle was a mix of colorful dots; pink, purple, yellow and green. 

“Mazie, who is this a picture of?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s my baby sister, Sasha,” Mazie said.

Artwork courtesy of Mazie Grace - Copyright 2011

I looked into Mazie’s eyes and was careful before I spoke again. As far as I knew, Mazie did not have a sister, unless maybe— 

“Tell me about Sasha and how you see her in this picture,” I said.

****

Pretty Flowers and Sasha Grace

By: Mazie Grace 

One spring, I was playing in the yard at my old house. I got the ground real wet and dug a bunch of holes. Mom came outside and saw my holes which looked great to me. She said the yard didn’t look to good with all the holes in it but we could fill in the holes with something prettier than just the dirt that was there before. 

Mom cleaned me up and she took me and Sasha to the plants and tools store. She let me pick out some pretty flowers in little boxes. Our car trunk looked like a garden and smelled like dirt. We unloaded the car and planted those pretty flowers in my holes.

We were just about done when Dad came home and he saw our garden. He called it "randomly beautiful." That made my day! 

“You see Mazie,” Mom said, “you thought your holes were good before, but they made the perfect place for all those pretty flowers.” 

I think what made it even better was that Mom helped me do it.

In the summer, the spring flowers were not looking so good. Sasha didn’t look so good either. 

Sasha was the best baby ever. She ate my canned green beans when I snuck them to her at dinner. She laughed at my silly faces. She liked to bang hard toys together and eat books instead of read them. Mom said she didn’t know better. I thought Sasha was The Very Hungry Caterpillar. 

Mom and Dad told me to be careful with Sasha and to give her as much love as I could. Sasha had a hole in her heart and bandages on her chest. She saw doctors a lot but they didn’t make her better. Mommy says sometimes doctors can’t make people better.

We were up late at night at the hospital. I was bored and wanted to play with Sasha. Dad asked me to sit and color some pictures until Grammy and Gramps came. So, I drew this one. When Grammy and Gramps came, I showed everyone what I drewed.

I said, “It’s Sasha with the hole in her heart, but I filled it in with pretty flowers like the holes in the yard. See! That hole is not so good for Sasha, so I made it better by filling it in with pretty flowers. Maybe the doctors need some flowers.”

I got some tight hugs that night. I didn’t mean to make everyone cry, but they said they loved me. Grammy and Gramps took me to their house and I had a sleep over. 

I missed Sasha. The next time I saw her, she was sleeping in a pretty white dress and Mom said her spirit went home to God. 

So, this is one of my very favorite pictures I ever drewn.

****

Tears welled in my eyes and I took a sip of lemonade. I swallowed hard and coughed as the lemon tickled my throat.

“Careful, Indigo,” Mazie said while patting my back. “You don’t want lemonade going down the wrong tube.”

I smiled, tousled her hair and said, “Don’t ever lose that picture, Mazie. It is a masterpiece."

Water Wings

We all have hopes and dreams. These things make us learn, grow, and become stronger in our own different ways. Along with our hopes and dreams, we must accept that we have different talents, abilities, and even disabilities that shape who we are and what we can do. This was a lesson learned and a lesson taught by a little fairy in a fairy clan on the sunny banks of cool lake.

Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2014

There’s nothing more important to the fairies than their wings. Fairies need their wings to travel about quickly and escape from danger. Their wings help them rise above the ground and see the best routes to find food and other things for their homes and families. They can quickly fly away from grumpy badgers or bobcats who may want to crush them with their strong paws.

 All was well for this little fairy clan and especially for two fairies who were expecting their first baby. The day finally arrived and Maven was scared and excited to bring her new child into the world. Eilon tried to carefully tend to his wife’s needs as the nurse gave him orders. He was nervous and clumsy as he brought water and cloths.

When Maven and Eilon heard their baby’s first cry, they were so glad to see their little one’s beautiful face. But as the nurse turned their child over to clean her body, their faces fell. Her wings were not formed as a fairy baby’s wings should be. Although wings do grow larger with time, her forewings were clearly deformed and did not match the beauty of her hindwings.

“Oh dear,” said the nurse, “she’s a beautiful babe, but she will never fly. I’m sorry.” The nurse handed the baby to Maven. The nurse left the room to give the small family some peace.

Maven held her baby and cried as Eilon leaned down quietly and placed his large hand on the baby. “She is beautiful,” he whispered. “Her body may be delicate, but I feel that she has a strong spirit. We will name her Ersilia.”

Ersilia grew; her hair wavy brown, her eyes bright and green. She was slender and a bit shorter than the other fairies her age. Then there were her wings. Her hindwings grew to a lovely length. They were sharp and nearly transparent. Her forewings remained small, gnarled and curled against her back. The nurse was right—Ersilia will never fly.

Ersilia had few friends. Many of the fairies were too impatient to wait for her when they wanted to fly off and explore the nearby woods and meadows. Ersilia simply took too long getting around on foot. She often watched the others take to the sky as she stood alone in the tall grass.

Do not be mistaken, Ersilia experienced flight before—sort of. There were times when her parents would hold her hands between them and pull her into the air, but it was easier when she was smaller. She always loved doing that with her parents. Now that she was older, it was more difficult to lift her from the ground and they could only do it for short distances.

Since Ersilia could not travel far, she enjoyed going down to the lake. She loved the feeling of her feet sinking in the wet sand on the lake’s edge. Fairies only gathered water to drink and wash. They were careful not to wet their wings too much because wet wings cannot fly and most fairies do not like being grounded for long.

Maven warned Ersilia to stay close to shore because a deep lake was no place for any fairy. But Ersilia did not care if her wings were wet. Ersilia watched the ducks paddle around and tip headfirst into the water, shaking their tails in the air. They seemed to enjoy themselves.

Ersilia slowly walked down the shore into the water as she had many times before. This time she walked deeper and deeper into the water. She decided to hold her breath like the ducks and dip under the water. She got on her knees and submerged herself.

She found she could glide like the ducks using her hands, feet, and wings like fins to steer around. She practiced for days in a shallow area near the bank. She enjoyed just floating on her back while the sun warmed her wet skin.

She stood back up in her shallow pool with the water at her shoulders and felt she was ready to go further into the lake. She began to glide forward with her arms and feet, and she flexed her lower wings to give her more speed.

No sooner had she ventured away from the shore, that she noticed a large, dark figure below her. Before she could change directions, she was snatched up in the mouth of a great fish. As she was swallowed, Ersilia’s leg was cut on one of the fish’s sharp teeth and began to bleed.

The hungry fish thought she looked like a good meal until he tasted the bitter blood and felt ill. He spit Ersilia out as fast as he had swallowed her and swam away to warn the other fish not to snap at her kind. Fairy blood keeps all fairies safe from being eaten, at least by creatures who know a fairy’s blood is bitter and poisonous. Ersilia was the first fairy to ever venture into a body of water.

Ersilia swam to shore and limped home. Maven and Eilon were shocked at what happened. Maven cleaned and bandaged Ersilia’s leg and stressed how she should never try that adventure again. Ersilia insisted that no great harm was done.

“I love the water, Mama,” Ersilia explained. “It is where I feel free like other fairies do when they fly, and that fish learned his lesson not to eat fairies.”

“But that won’t protect you if he decides to take revenge and drown you with his fins!” Maven said firmly.

“I am in just as much danger on land than in the water,” Ersilia replied. “I cannot fly away from a wild cat or a snake in the bushes. Most animals have lived well alongside us once we get to know each other,” Ersilia paused looking at her parents. “Mama, Papa, I was born crippled and I cannot change it, but I can change how I live with misshapen wings and enjoy my life.”

Maven’s face began to redden and her wings twitched as she was about to respond, but Eilon stepped toward his wife and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. He said, “Maven—All parents must let their fairies fly someday. It is time for us to let Ersilia fly in her own way. If the water is her sky, then let her fly.”

Maven looked into Ersilia’s eyes and reached up to Eilon’s hands. Maven cried as his words became clear to her. “Ersilia, it scares me that you want to venture in the water,” Maven paused and took a deep breath. “But we won’t hold you back. It will make you stronger as flight does for us.”

Ersilia lit up with excitement and hugged her parents. They all cried and expressed their love for each other. She thanked them for understanding.

It took several days for Ersilia’s leg to heal, but no lasting damage was made and as soon as the scabbing had gone, she was ready to face the water again.

Word spread through the fairy village of Ersilia’s adventure and this time she was not alone when she returned to the lake’s edge. Some fairies scoffed and whispered criticisms under their breath as they hovered nearby. Others were amazed at what Ersilia was about to do, and they cheered her on.

Ersilia ignored the audible mocking and smiled at the encouragement. Her parents stood on the shore. They were nervous for her but were also curious to see how she swam in the water.

Ersilia stepped off the shore and sunk her toes into the soft, cool sand.  She smiled as she waded further into the water and her wings twitched. She took a deep breath and dove into the water.

The fairies gasped as Ersilia disappeared into the dark waters. Moments later she bobbed her head out of the lake quite a distance from the shore and waved her hand in the air. The fairies were amazed and took flight over the lake, circling above and cheering loudly.

After that day on the lake, Ersilia was not alone. Some fairies wished to brave the waters and asked Ersilia to teach them how to swim. Other fairies apologized for their harsh judgments.

Ersilia was a brave, beautiful, and confident fairy in spite of her physical limitations. Some of her hopes and dreams came true and she was content with that. She fell in love and was married to a strong, hard-working fairy, and he loved her entirely. They had three children; two of which had their own pairs of water wings, but that did not matter. They all grew and developed their own talents and were taught to be positive and find joy no matter what.

The Real Wing

There was a terrible collision between a storm cloud from the north and a storm cloud from the south. When the two storms met they swirled and beat at each other fiercely.

"You're in my way!" the north storm cried.

"I'm not in your way, you are in mine!" the south storm bellowed.

As the two storms rumbled and fought, the land, trees and many creatures below were blown about. The land became a tangled mess and all living hoped the fighting storms would stop soon.

Indigo C. Beacon - Copyright 2015

While the wind blew, a lovely butterfly with wings like stained glass was taken in a gust far away from her home which was on a bush by a riverbank. While the wind blew more, a graceful fairy with wings also like stained glass was swept away from a daisy field where she slept. These two poor creatures tossed and tumbled high in the air and feared for their lives.

The north storm and the south storm fought until their strength was gone and they began to slide past each other hiding their heads. They were both too proud to admit that all their fighting had worn them out.

When the winds slowed, the fairy and the butterfly began drifting back to earth where they landed a short distance apart on a rocky mound. They rested there until each could regain her strength.

The fairy was the first to sit up and look around. She was lost. She missed her daisy field and other fairy friends. Then she saw the wings of the butterfly and mistook her for another fairy. She gently touched the butterfly's wings and asked if she was alright.

The butterfly slowly turned to face this stranger. Both the butterfly and the fairy were surprised to see each other. They could not believe their eyes.

"My head must still be in a daze," said the butterfly. "My eyes tell me I see a fairy, but that can't be true. Fairies are not real."

"But I am real," said the fairy. "I have never seen a real butterfly before either. I thought butterflies were imaginary creatures."

The beautiful pair gazed at each other and admired their detailed wings and strange bodies. How similar they both looked. 

The butterfly said, "In my land there are no fairies, but there are giant creatures called people. We have always heard stories about fairies that are small, mysterious people with butterfly wings." 

"That's funny. In my land there are no butterflies," said the fairy. "But we have always told stories about butterflies that were creatures with bodies like a wasp and wings like a fairy."

The colorful pair were glad to meet and they felt so special to finally learn that the stories they were told were true. But they could not stay on the rocky mound for long. It was sunny and hot. Although the fairy and the butterfly were happy to become friends, they knew they needed to return to their homes.

The fairy told the butterfly that fairies don't travel very far. They hide in the tall grasses, tree branches, bushes and thick flower beds.  She explained that fairies are very shy and good at hiding, but they are not very good at finding their way.

The butterfly said she may be able to help because she travels many miles with masses of butterflies from north to south and then south to north every year. She called this migration and said how she loved to travel.

The fairy was delighted and grateful that the butterfly could be a guide.

"We will need to fly high to see the land," said the butterfly. "Will you trust me to help you find your way?" The butterfly held out one of her legs prompting the fairy to hold on.

The fairy felt a flutter in her tummy and was a bit nervous, but then she took hold of the butterfly's leg. "I'm ready," said the fairy.

Artwork courtesy of Jochabel Reese - Copyright 2014

They both ascended high over the land to see where they were. The butterfly saw a river cutting through a great forest. She knew there was a wide open daisy field on the far edge of the forest. She also knew if she followed the river, she would find her way home to the bush.

They had to hurry because the sun was setting and they would find themselves in danger when the bats and owls came out to eat at night. The butterfly told the fairy she would fly her to the daisy field and then travel home to her bush on the riverbed.

Once they reached the daisy field the fairy exclaimed, "That's my daisy patch right there!"

Her poor daisy patch was weather beaten and the fairy could see other fairies trying to help the flowers stand tall again. The graceful fairy hugged the butterfly in the air and thanked her for bringing her home. The fairy flew down to her friends and began to work in the sunset.

The butterfly waved her wings with tears in her eyes and saw the sun setting. She flew as fast as she could back to her home. The fairy friends saw the butterfly high in the sky and asked how that fairy helped the graceful fairy get home. The fairy told them all about the butterfly.

When the butterfly arrived at her bush, the bush was tattered and weak. It was still her home and the home of many other butterflies who found their way back. She told them her story, but she was very tired and could not stay awake long enough for her friends to respond. That night she dreamed of when she could see the graceful fairy again and meet her family, but she never woke up. The butterfly slipped quietly away in death.

The graceful fairy missed her butterfly friend but she never went out to find her. She was too afraid of losing her way. She cherished the memory of meeting the butterfly that windy day and grateful the butterfly helped save her life.

None of the other butterflies believed that the lovely butterfly really saw a fairy. None of the other fairies believed that the graceful fairy really saw a butterfly. Both the butterflies and the fairies continued to pass on tales about the legendary butterflies and the mysterious fairies for generations. Then on occasion, there would be an encounter where one came across the other and their stories were still considered just fairy tales.