Blossom’s Bosom

Tiffany Lindfield

Translated by Susanna Martin Short in 1690.

Dear Big People,

When you’re a fairy, the world is huge—bigger than if you were not a fairy. There are exceptions to this rule, of course. We are taller than ants, unless they stand on their hind legs—and then they tower over us. Small enough to ride the backs of honeybees, clasp the anther of flowers with our whole bodies, and snuggle into the center of Lantana Camaras. A lake or a river, or a stream is to us what the ocean would be to you: vast, nearly inscrutable; a leaf like a tree. Our hearts—our minds, like yours, though, see past the clouds, to the universe, under the skin, to the blood chugging in our veins; we speak. Hummingbirds are enormous, the flutter of their wings powerful enough to blow us like the seeds of dandelions, to float on light breezes; but like the hummingbird, we are agile. Like butterflies, our wings are oversized, the lady bugs teasing us, “you’re all wings,” in their French accents—and our wings gossamer like spider’s webs, carrying us Godspeed— but not far. Every fairies’ wings are unique, mine radiating soft and sharp blues, pinks and white, each fiber shimmering a blend of kaleidoscopic hues. Though we are quick, we have little endurance for our frames are frail and brittle. Life crafting us for a brief while. Therefore, unlike the body you have, strong with a network of sturdy muscles, bones, and joints, we are mostly made of hollowed bones and fascia. Our skin is nearly translucent, shimmering with the many emotions we experience, our skin bare, wearing nothing on our bodies except for what exists in the world, naturally. Our hair, long and thin like silk—mine the color of lavender— touching the ground when we walk. We have eyes such as yours, only more exceptional in sight, seeing wavelengths of all colors in majesty. Our ears are small though, pointed and

pointless leaving us nearly deaf. The world around us, bountiful in sound, is but a whisper to my people. It is the crickets that warn us of danger, using their legs as screeching violins. Our sense of smell, taste and touch is the same as yours. We spend our days asleep, buried where the sun cannot burn our diaphanous skin. Just as all life though, we require the touch of the sun. We stand to the sun as it rises, relishing in the kiss of its many rays, every single sunrise. We call this Birthe. After which, we scurry away, sleeping under leaves, twigs, in the cusp of flowers, among worms that slide over us, under us. The peak of the moon stirs us, energy filling our bodies, shaking us to aliveness. We spend the beginning of our night gathering food from Earth in an enthusiastic rage. Gathering, then eating in dyadic groups, then we summon ourselves for Gonosh; dancing, singing, and lovemaking. No one in our world claims power. We have no religion but that of our Mother Earth, represent no gender— expressing our sexuality freely, open, possessing not ourselves, nor another. Some among us have the power to birth children. They are celebrated and the children they bare raised among us all. There is little violence among us, those causing intentional harm embraced with the strength of love. We do not hurry for rewards, nor store treasures for tomorrow and this is where my lesson begins. A lesson of the circle of life; we call this Uine. We stood for Birthe, relishing the sun as it rose, letting slides of light graze our noses with our eyes closed in reverence; this was my first Birthe. Before that day, I was too young to partake in the ritual, spending all my days and nights attached to different people, wrapped, tenderly in their arms, given sweet nectar to drink, nourishment from giving hands, prompted from sleep with high whistles. Time moves, dragging along, and as such, I grew too big to travel on the backs of my people. I began to stand on two legs, still much to learn, the eagerness of youth yanking me to a sprint. On my first standing sunrise, Lilikia, an ancient fairy took my hand after Birthe, telling me in a sing-song voice that I must follow. Ancient in our world is the passing of four seasons, our lives short. Lilikia took me to the edge of the river. I saw the sun’s reflection on the water’s top, soft glass, like I could—if I wanted—to walk or slide or dance across it. It captivated my senses, wholly. Lilikia watched with me, knowing my eyes were drawn and stood.

There was something else I was meant to see, however and Lilikia took my hand. It was with the pointing of Lilikia’s hands that my eyes were summoned by the small bud of a flower not yet bloomed. “Today, you see the bud, tomorrow the bloom,” Lilikia said, the look of the river in big eyes, silky and wet. As prophesized, the next sunrise, Lilikia took my hand leading me to the little bud. It was now an extravaganza, blooms of beautiful yellows, oranges and blues had been brought forth from the stalk of the plant. I was in awe of the full bloom, nestling against it, pleasuring myself in the softness and alluring scent. Lilikia joined me in this appraisal, admiring the flower’s beauty. Lilikia said to me, “Today we see the bloom. Tomorrow, we see the seed.” The next sunrise, Lilikia took my hand, leading me to the blossom. It was overflowing, bursting, now, with ripe seeds. We ate many of the them, to our bellies delight, again enchanted by the bloom’s beauty and now, in awe of its power to give life. After this, Lilikia said to me, “Today we see the seeds of life, tomorrow we see Uine.” I had no knowledge of the word, but contained my ignorance, with silence, understanding this was also a lesson in patience. Another sunrise and I learned the meaning of Uine. It looked like death, for the bloom was no longer at its peak, nor abundant in seed. “Death,” I whimpered to Lilikia. “No, Lilikia said touching the tip of my nose with a bent finger “life— Uine is life.” I looked at the bloom as Lilikia’s words made meaning in my mind. It was but a wilted resemblance of a past gone too quickly, I thought. Looking at Lilikia, feeling as if my heart weighed more than the whole Earth, I touched the stalk of the plant with one hand. Lilikia gathered the branches, leaves and blooms, dry to the touch, fashioning a crown for our heads. Afterwards, Lilikia, said to me, “Just as a bud blooms and dies, so you will bloom and die, to be reborn into something else.” “Something else?” I asked, the crown feeling heavy on my head. Lilikia continued, “Look around you and see. Some life is new, some is old, but all is still here, churning and turning over again. You see?” Walking back, I saw Uine everywhere. As I lay that morning entangled in leaves, cozy against the ground of the earth, I sensed Uine all around me, running fingers in the dirt, relishing microscopic pieces of old blooms, a snail’s

shell, dinosaur bones and thought, one day, my body, too. Dreams came to my eyes with these thoughts, as I snuggled my body closely to those near me, feeling the beating in their hearts; in rhythm with mine, the oceans, the tides— the whole Earth herself. Uine, I whimpered— whispered, nesting my nose in the crook of a flower’s bloom.