A Child's First Yule
Article ID: 16017
Age Group: Adult
Days Up: 136
Times Read: 2,692
RSS Views: 30,074
Author: Merideth Allyn [a WitchVox Sponsor]
Posted: December 9th. 2016
Times Viewed: 2,692
This Yuletide Eve a mighty abyss was bridged, and the silver and tinsel-colored country sky of southwest Tennessee swelled into the young child’s nursery, making Tate (and all children) a part of the true, time-after-of-time, awe, wonder, and beauty of the Yuletide. The night was alive with prickly, dark, emerald-green holly leaves and their bright, crimson berries. And, there was less than an inch of crystalline snow polishing the last sheared fields of autumn. Everything was prismatic in the light of the wan, full winter moon, which rays hit hard, hoary frost and lit the stark, bare trees where birds’ nests and mistletoe were no longer hidden from the most discerning bird-watcher’s eyes.
The squirrels, seemingly harboring food for the dark season during all seasons, could be seen jumping and scrambling, skittering and frolicking, and gamboling in the warmth of their furry winter coats, their bushy tails frenetically beating the second-hand ticks of a soundless clock. And Tate became part of this enchanting and crisp circle of the infinite fullness of Yuletide Eve.
Faeries danced, the Elves sang, and nothing could have been more enchantingly enchanting. Yule logs in the ambient amber hearth with logs crackling, candles with ivy, pine and cedar on the mantels, scarlet cardinals never more beautiful than in winter, snowbirds, bluebirds, phoebes, and, of course, live Yule trees cut just that day, and the added greenery of trimmed wreaths…everything pungent with the scent of cedar and pine both indoors and outdoors making this magical Yuletide Eve a charming shrine.
Now Tate didn’t know that he had been chosen (as all young children are) to be dusted by magical Yuletide Faery dust made from tiny, star kissed bits of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, pearls and gold - Otherworldly dust saved just for this season and reason. And, when the magical Faery dust brushed Tate’s Rubenesque cheeks and his long, ebony lashes, which covered his OtherWorldly smoky-blue eyes, he stirred and those eyes, full of wisdom because he was an old soul, fluttered open. He yawned with his rosebud mouth; then, he noticed that his room, instead of the dark gray of late twilight, was shining with a warm, the color of sunset’s light. And, his room smelled of delicious apple cider with cinnamon sticks and nutmeg.
Shaking his small head, he reached one arm up and behind it and stretched for a long time feeling alive with joy; then with the other arm he did the same, flexing his small ivory hands and yawning simultaneously. Tate, after stretching his legs out as far as he could, became sensitive to the wonder of a breathtaking, golden-sunlit ball shining through his large, four-paned window. Tate wasn’t frightened. He didn’t cry. He didn’t call out for mommy or daddy. He just looked, eyes bright with wonder-filled delight, as only the very young and innocent child can. He smiled his sweet smile (all young children have sweet smiles) and released an Elvish giggle. Elvish giggles are lightly musical… chime-like and breezily tinkling. (The Otherworldly do not like loud and garish sounds!)
Tate was beside himself with anticipation. He must get to that brightly glowing ball. It never once occurred to him that children (or adults for that matter) couldn’t fly, because he had always known he could. Tate had been flying over town, city, and countryside since he could remember, which was not so long past. Hadn’t his dreams proven that? So Tate flew to the Yuletide Comet made of Stardust, from which we are all made, through the window as if the glass panes were merely swirling atomic particles that were only solid and material if viewed from that perspective.
When he reached the effervescent Comet of Stardust, Tate held his arms out and spread them as wide as possible, and hugged the Comet with all his might. And, a hug from Tate, if you’ve never had one, is nothing short of ecstasy. (As are all hugs from the young.) Then Tate, holding tightly to this luminary made of golden stardust, went with it, soaring and gliding over this perfect southwest Tennessee countryside of hills and dales and tree-filled groves on this Yuletide Eve night…flying over fallow fields covered with the dusting of snow glitter. He was dipped into a holly bush and felt the prickliness of it, while noting the perfect roundness and redness of its berries; he felt the chill of a whimsical wind but didn’t get very cold. The squirrels were sleeping now, but he was allowed to pat and pet and love and nestle into their warm, winter, thick fur, all the while being thrilled at their snoring somnolence.
Tate was flown into a lovingly decorated great room with holly wreaths, cedar on the mantle while dwarves held welcoming lanterns on the floor, candles and an especially eye-catching Yule tree trimmed with glittering dawn-colored lights. Ancient ornaments held dear by the family who lived and loved long years here were hung perfectly every limb filled. And bedecked at the top was a shimmering white, gold, silver and pink Faery, who demurely smiled at him with her picture-perfect eyes and lips. Tate only felt incredible awe. He wasn’t taken aback, nor was he afraid, but rainbow tears of an emotion he could not explain sprang to his eyes, and he let one tear fall. The tear... The water of life, the cleansing and purifying of all souls at Yule, the tear that could give joy to all who would experience it had come from his pure and unmarred innocence, celebrating the birth of the Sun King, and of all life and love. And from this mystery, Tate became an integral part of the traditional and cyclical miracle of the Yuletide season.
The last thing Tate did not see, but heard before he awakened in his cozy nursery on this first day of Yule, was the cooing of a dove.
Although Tate grew, and grew, and grew, and grew until he became the adult we all become, that Yuletide Eve night was forever a part of his heart and soul, and he never, ever forgot the wonder, awe, perfection, and joy of that night when he flew with the golden Comet made of Stardust, of which we all are made, over the pristine, snow-covered southwest Tennessee countryside…a wondrous place where he lived until the age of ninety-seven, telling and retelling the story to his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and to any child who had the ears to hear, and the innocent, untainted belief in magic and mystery, awe and wonder to believe.
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Location: Jackson, Tennessee
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