May 6, 2024 • 35 mins
Our story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it’s a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on a bright warm day. It’s also about moss and pine needles, a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic and gratitude for the ones we share our space with.
We give to a different charity each week, and this week, we are giving to Hot Mess Express. A women-led nonprofit with chapters across the United States. They serve the women in their community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a fresh start.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens,
you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio
(00:26):
Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different
charity each week, and this week we are giving to
Hot Mess Express, a woman led non profit with chapters
across the United States. They serve the women in their
(00:48):
community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a
fresh start. Learn more about them in our show notes.
I'd like to thank a few recent subscribers to our
premium feed, so thank you Alice and Anna, Thank you Harold,
(01:15):
thank you Eddie and Don. Subscribing really does make what
we do here possible. As well as bringing you our
complete catalog of episodes ad free, we have dozens of
bonus episodes as well as a growing number of our
(01:38):
extra long Slightly More Happens episodes. We just added another
Marmalade and crumb one and you get all of this
for about a dime a day. If you're interested in joining,
you'll find a link in our notes. Just search an
(02:01):
MH premium on Apple podcasts. Now This method works by
giving your brain something too attached to It becomes like
an anchor. Your ship drops anchor, and instead of traveling
(02:25):
all over the place, your mind is held in one soft,
relaxing place, and you sleep. All you need to do
is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go
(02:47):
a little slower the second time through. If you wake
again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode
right back on. With time, you'll wake less, and even
when you do, you'll return to sleep within moments. Our
(03:12):
story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it's
a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on
a bright, warm day. It's also about moss and pine needles,
(03:32):
a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic,
and gratitude for the ones we share our space with.
Now it's time turn out your light, set down your device,
(03:59):
and get asked. Comfortable as you can, tuck yourself in
with all the loving care little you needs tonight. Relax
your jaw on your shoulders and let your body be heavy.
(04:22):
Whatever you've gotten done today, it was enough. You have
done enough. Draw a deep breath in through the nose
and sigh from your mouth. One more in.
Speaker 2 (04:52):
Let it go good cinder and the springtime.
Speaker 1 (05:08):
Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
and even spotted one or two in the side yard
(05:33):
when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
out the neighborhood and would put down roots somewhere close.
(05:54):
Then I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves
on the window, and I couldn't believe my luck. I
would have a front row seat for the spring squabs.
(06:15):
Day by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to
the sill with pine needles or bits of hay in
their beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the
concise construction, to watch it be built up in layers,
(06:44):
to see how the scraps were woven together, building materials
tried and rejected, then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse
into their lives and instincts. They had gotten used to
(07:08):
me passing by the window, and though they frequently froze
for a few seconds staring with their liquid black eyes,
when I turned away to brush my teeth at the sink,
(07:29):
they likewise turned back to their work. My gray cat,
Cinder knew they were there, but kept away from the
window so that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not
(07:52):
believe that that a cat would understand the situation and
act in that way, But she was not like other cats.
She was like an ante, but in animal form. She
(08:15):
found the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and
matched them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed
a soul to bring light into their home, some one
(08:37):
to catch all the love they needed to give. That
is frequently the cause of heartache, love with no one
to give it to. So Cinder and I play match
maker among our neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds.
(09:04):
Unbelieve it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare
those doves any more than she would have left a
lost bunny out in the cold. So last spring, the
doves had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and
(09:29):
when the babies grew big enough and learned to fly,
they started again with two more. The collective noun for
mourning doves, at least the one that stood out because
of how ill suited it felt was piteousness, a piteousness
(09:58):
of mourning doves. No, that wasn't right at all. It
had been a jubilance of doves, as far as I
could tell. And when the jubilants flew south for the winter,
(10:19):
the little nest sat empty and had filled with snow.
It lasted, though they'd built it so well that even
after the spring melt and the strong winds blew, it
(10:41):
sat sturdily on the sill. Then this morning, as I
groggily washed my face at the basin, I heard a coup,
that unmistakable call of a dove, and I quickly pressed
(11:05):
a towel to my face and edged over to the window.
There on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak
was my friend. She was patching up the family estate.
(11:28):
I stood there with a towel under my chin, a
huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
the window. And how good it was to share my
(11:54):
home with souls like Cinder and this family doves. It
made me think of something my grandmother would do in
the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her own yard.
(12:18):
She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around the garden,
leave them at the base of her bird bath and
near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was a spring offering,
(12:40):
and one that really helped. I'd read a note in
her handwriting in a margin of her grimoire that if
a rite or ritual didn't actually accomplish something useful or good, well,
(13:05):
then she didn't much see the point, and I found
that her type of practical magic suited me best as well.
Some people liked to offer up the hair from their
(13:26):
brushes and combs for birds to use, but Grandma had
written that if the hair was longer than an inch,
it could actually harm birds much more than help them,
So better to look for moss and lichen, pine needles,
(13:54):
and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs. So Cinder and I
started indoors, winding the duster into the corners of the
ceilings and shaking the webs out over the back porch.
(14:19):
When I reached for my sweater and bike helmet, Cinder
meowed at my ankles. I'd had a special basket installed
for her at the bicycle shop in the Alley downtown.
(14:40):
It had a cushioned bottom and a seat belt that
attached to her harness so we could ride together. Are
you up for a ride, I asked, and leaned down
to stroke her back. She pressed her head into my
(15:03):
hand and purred softly. A few minutes later we were
buckled into place, rolling down the street toward the dirt
roads a few blocks over. Cinder sat comfortably in her basket,
(15:27):
her whiskers flickering in the breeze as I pedaled. When
we turned down a dirt road where a stretch of
woods extended along beside us, I slowed down, first to
(15:47):
avoid the ruts that the spring rain had deepened, and
second to listen and smell and feel for the things
we were looking for. At a certain point, like a
(16:07):
compass arrow pulled toward north, or a dowsing rod drawn
to a vein of water. The handlebars turned toward the verge,
and I found a spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder
(16:29):
from her basket. She jumped up onto my shoulder, where
she liked to sit like a queen, and we walked
into the woods. I had a small tote bag with me,
(16:50):
and we wandered along, pausing to fill it with handfuls
of pine needles and milkweed fluff. I found some saven
leaved club moss, but the clump was so paltry I
hesitated to take any. I thought that if it had
(17:15):
been further into the warm weather a few weeks into June,
when the cottonwood flies, I could have taken that I'd
have had enough to stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I
(17:36):
turned our heads in unison toward a brighter corner of
the wood, intuition calling us over ah a broad patch
of mossy stone crop sometimes called golden sedum. As I
(18:02):
plucked handfuls to take home for the birds to weave
into their nests, Cinder walked through the soft carpet. Do
mourning doves like sedum? I asked her. Her tail flicked lazily,
(18:25):
as if to say, I suppose we shall see if
they did. I thought i'd write it into the Grimoire,
an idea for a rite of spring some descendant might
read about one day recognizing my handwriting like I recognized grands,
(18:54):
and being encouraged to step out into the garden an
offer up some gift to the birds. Cinder and the springtime.
(19:18):
Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
and even spotted one or two in the side yard
(19:43):
when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
out the neighborhood and would put down somewhere close. Then
(20:07):
I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves on
the window sill and couldn't believe my luck. I would
have a front row seat for the spring squabs. Day
(20:30):
by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to the
sill with pine needles or bits of hay in their
beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the concise construction,
(20:56):
to watch it be built up in layers, to see
how the scraps were woven together, building materials tried and rejected,
then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse into their lives
(21:23):
and instincts. They had gotten used to me passing by
the window, and though they frequently froze for a few
seconds staring with their liquid black eyes, when I turned
(21:48):
away to brush my teeth at the sink, they likewise
turned back to their work. My gray cat, Cinder knew
they were there, but kept away from the window so
(22:12):
that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not believe that
that a cat would understand the situation and act in
that way, but she was not like other cats. She
(22:40):
was like an auntie, but in animal form. She found
the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and matched
them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed a
(23:05):
soul to bring light into their home, someone to catch
all the love they needed to give. That is frequently
the cause of heartache, love with no one to give
(23:28):
it to. So Cinder and I play matchmaker among our
neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds, And believe
it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare those
(23:49):
doves any more than she would have left a lost
bunny out in the cold. So last spring the doves
had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and when
(24:12):
the babies grew big enough and learned to fly, they
started again with two more. The collective noun for mourning doves,
at least the one that stood out because of how
(24:34):
ill suited it felt, was piteousness. A piteousness of mourning doves,
No that wasn't right at all. It had been a
jubilance of doves, as far as I could tell, And
(25:01):
when the jubilants flew south for the winter, the little
nest sat empty and had filled with snow. Still it lasted.
(25:23):
They'd built it so well that even after the spring
melt and the strong winds blew, it sat sturdily on
the sill. Then this morning, as I groggily washed my
(25:45):
face at the basin, I heard a coup, that unmistakable
call of a dove, and I quickly pressed a towel
to my face and edged over to the window. There
(26:11):
on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak was
my friend, and she was patching up the family estate.
I stood there with the towel at my chin, a
(26:33):
huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
the window, and how good it was to share my
home with souls like Cinder and this family of day.
(27:04):
It made me think of something my grandmother would do
in the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her
own yard. She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around
(27:26):
the garden, leave them at the base of her bird
bath and near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was
a spring offering, and one that really helped. I'd read
(27:50):
a note in her handwriting in a margin of her
grimoire that if a right or ritual didn't actually accomplish
something useful or good, well, she didn't much see the
(28:13):
point when I found that her type of practical magic
best suited me as well. Some people liked to offer
up the hair from their brushes and combs for birds
(28:34):
to use, but Grandma had written that if hair was
longer than an inch, it could actually harm birds much
more than help them, So better to look for moss
and lichen, pine needles, and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs.
(29:06):
So Cinder and I started indoors, winding the duster into
the corners of the ceiling and shaking all the webs
out over the back porch. When I reached for my
(29:26):
sweater and bike helmet, Cinder meowed at my ankles. I'd
had a special basket installed for her at the bicycle
shop in the Alley down town. It had a cushioned
(29:47):
bottom and a seat belt that attached to her harness
so we could ride together. Are you up for a ride,
I asked, and leaned down to stroke her back. She
(30:12):
pressed her head into my hand and purred softly. A
few minutes later we were buckled into place, rolling down
the street toward the dirt roads. A few blocks over.
(30:36):
Cinder sat comfortably in her basket, her whiskers flickering in
the breeze as I peddled. When we turned down a
dirt road where a stretch of woods extended along beside us,
(30:59):
I slowed down, first to avoid the ruts that the
spring rain had deepened, and second to listen and smell
and feel for the things we were looking for. At
(31:24):
a certain point, like a compass arrow pulled toward north,
or a dowsing rod drawn to a vein of water.
The handlebars turned toward the verge, and I found a
(31:48):
spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder from her basket. She
jumped up onto my shoulder, where she liked to sit
like a queen, and we walked into the woods. I
(32:10):
had a small tote bag with me, and we wandered along,
pausing to fill it with handfuls of pine needle and
milkweed fluff. I found some saven leaved club moss, but
(32:35):
the clump was so paltry I hesitated to take any
I thought that if it had been further into the
warm weather a few weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies,
(33:00):
I could have taken that I'd have had enough to
stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I turned our heads in
unison toward a bright corner of the wood, intuition calling
(33:23):
us over ah a broad patch of mossy stone crop
sometimes called golden sedum. As I plucked handfuls to take
(33:47):
home for the birds to weave into their nests, Cinder
walked through the soft carpet to mourning doves like Sedom.
I asked her her taale flicked lazily, as if to say,
(34:14):
I suppose we shall see if they did. I thought
I'd write it into the Grimoire, an idea for a
rite of spring. Some descendant might read about one day,
(34:36):
recognizing my handwriting like I'd recognized grants, and be encouraged
to step out into a garden and offer up some
gift to the birds. Sweet dreams,
Welcome to bedtime Stories for Everyone, in which nothing much happens,
you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolay.
I create everything you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio
(00:26):
Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different
charity each week, and this week we are giving to
Hot Mess Express, a woman led non profit with chapters
across the United States. They serve the women in their
(00:48):
community with no judgment through cleaning, organizing, and offering a
fresh start. Learn more about them in our show notes.
I'd like to thank a few recent subscribers to our
premium feed, so thank you Alice and Anna, Thank you Harold,
(01:15):
thank you Eddie and Don. Subscribing really does make what
we do here possible. As well as bringing you our
complete catalog of episodes ad free, we have dozens of
bonus episodes as well as a growing number of our
(01:38):
extra long Slightly More Happens episodes. We just added another
Marmalade and crumb one and you get all of this
for about a dime a day. If you're interested in joining,
you'll find a link in our notes. Just search an
(02:01):
MH premium on Apple podcasts. Now This method works by
giving your brain something too attached to It becomes like
an anchor. Your ship drops anchor, and instead of traveling
(02:25):
all over the place, your mind is held in one soft,
relaxing place, and you sleep. All you need to do
is listen. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go
(02:47):
a little slower the second time through. If you wake
again in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode
right back on. With time, you'll wake less, and even
when you do, you'll return to sleep within moments. Our
(03:12):
story tonight is called Cinder and the Springtime, and it's
a story about a gift given to returning neighbors on
a bright, warm day. It's also about moss and pine needles,
(03:32):
a bicycle basket made special for a friend, practical magic,
and gratitude for the ones we share our space with.
Now it's time turn out your light, set down your device,
(03:59):
and get asked. Comfortable as you can, tuck yourself in
with all the loving care little you needs tonight. Relax
your jaw on your shoulders and let your body be heavy.
(04:22):
Whatever you've gotten done today, it was enough. You have
done enough. Draw a deep breath in through the nose
and sigh from your mouth. One more in.
Speaker 2 (04:52):
Let it go good cinder and the springtime.
Speaker 1 (05:08):
Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
and even spotted one or two in the side yard
(05:33):
when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
out the neighborhood and would put down roots somewhere close.
(05:54):
Then I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves
on the window, and I couldn't believe my luck. I
would have a front row seat for the spring squabs.
(06:15):
Day by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to
the sill with pine needles or bits of hay in
their beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the
concise construction, to watch it be built up in layers,
(06:44):
to see how the scraps were woven together, building materials
tried and rejected, then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse
into their lives and instincts. They had gotten used to
(07:08):
me passing by the window, and though they frequently froze
for a few seconds staring with their liquid black eyes,
when I turned away to brush my teeth at the sink,
(07:29):
they likewise turned back to their work. My gray cat,
Cinder knew they were there, but kept away from the
window so that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not
(07:52):
believe that that a cat would understand the situation and
act in that way, But she was not like other cats.
She was like an ante, but in animal form. She
(08:15):
found the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and
matched them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed
a soul to bring light into their home, some one
(08:37):
to catch all the love they needed to give. That
is frequently the cause of heartache, love with no one
to give it to. So Cinder and I play match
maker among our neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds.
(09:04):
Unbelieve it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare
those doves any more than she would have left a
lost bunny out in the cold. So last spring, the
doves had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and
(09:29):
when the babies grew big enough and learned to fly,
they started again with two more. The collective noun for
mourning doves, at least the one that stood out because
of how ill suited it felt was piteousness, a piteousness
(09:58):
of mourning doves. No, that wasn't right at all. It
had been a jubilance of doves, as far as I
could tell. And when the jubilants flew south for the winter,
(10:19):
the little nest sat empty and had filled with snow.
It lasted, though they'd built it so well that even
after the spring melt and the strong winds blew, it
(10:41):
sat sturdily on the sill. Then this morning, as I
groggily washed my face at the basin, I heard a coup,
that unmistakable call of a dove, and I quickly pressed
(11:05):
a towel to my face and edged over to the window.
There on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak
was my friend. She was patching up the family estate.
(11:28):
I stood there with a towel under my chin, a
huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
the window. And how good it was to share my
(11:54):
home with souls like Cinder and this family doves. It
made me think of something my grandmother would do in
the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her own yard.
(12:18):
She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around the garden,
leave them at the base of her bird bath and
near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was a spring offering,
(12:40):
and one that really helped. I'd read a note in
her handwriting in a margin of her grimoire that if
a rite or ritual didn't actually accomplish something useful or good, well,
(13:05):
then she didn't much see the point, and I found
that her type of practical magic suited me best as well.
Some people liked to offer up the hair from their
(13:26):
brushes and combs for birds to use, but Grandma had
written that if the hair was longer than an inch,
it could actually harm birds much more than help them,
So better to look for moss and lichen, pine needles,
(13:54):
and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs. So Cinder and I
started indoors, winding the duster into the corners of the
ceilings and shaking the webs out over the back porch.
(14:19):
When I reached for my sweater and bike helmet, Cinder
meowed at my ankles. I'd had a special basket installed
for her at the bicycle shop in the Alley downtown.
(14:40):
It had a cushioned bottom and a seat belt that
attached to her harness so we could ride together. Are
you up for a ride, I asked, and leaned down
to stroke her back. She pressed her head into my
(15:03):
hand and purred softly. A few minutes later we were
buckled into place, rolling down the street toward the dirt
roads a few blocks over. Cinder sat comfortably in her basket,
(15:27):
her whiskers flickering in the breeze as I pedaled. When
we turned down a dirt road where a stretch of
woods extended along beside us, I slowed down, first to
(15:47):
avoid the ruts that the spring rain had deepened, and
second to listen and smell and feel for the things
we were looking for. At a certain point, like a
(16:07):
compass arrow pulled toward north, or a dowsing rod drawn
to a vein of water. The handlebars turned toward the verge,
and I found a spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder
(16:29):
from her basket. She jumped up onto my shoulder, where
she liked to sit like a queen, and we walked
into the woods. I had a small tote bag with me,
(16:50):
and we wandered along, pausing to fill it with handfuls
of pine needles and milkweed fluff. I found some saven
leaved club moss, but the clump was so paltry I
hesitated to take any. I thought that if it had
(17:15):
been further into the warm weather a few weeks into June,
when the cottonwood flies, I could have taken that I'd
have had enough to stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I
(17:36):
turned our heads in unison toward a brighter corner of
the wood, intuition calling us over ah a broad patch
of mossy stone crop sometimes called golden sedum. As I
(18:02):
plucked handfuls to take home for the birds to weave
into their nests, Cinder walked through the soft carpet. Do
mourning doves like sedum? I asked her. Her tail flicked lazily,
(18:25):
as if to say, I suppose we shall see if
they did. I thought i'd write it into the Grimoire,
an idea for a rite of spring some descendant might
read about one day recognizing my handwriting like I recognized grands,
(18:54):
and being encouraged to step out into the garden an
offer up some gift to the birds. Cinder and the springtime.
(19:18):
Last spring, I noticed a nest coming together outside my
bathroom window. I'd been hearing the call of mourning doves
and even spotted one or two in the side yard
(19:43):
when I'd stepped out of the house. They flew off
whenever they saw me, but I hoped they were checking
out the neighborhood and would put down somewhere close. Then
(20:07):
I found that pile of twigs and torn leaves on
the window sill and couldn't believe my luck. I would
have a front row seat for the spring squabs. Day
(20:30):
by day they'd worked on the nest, hopping to the
sill with pine needles or bits of hay in their
beaks and laying them down. I marveled at the concise construction,
(20:56):
to watch it be built up in layers, to see
how the scraps were woven together, building materials tried and rejected,
then replaced. It was a fascinating glimpse into their lives
(21:23):
and instincts. They had gotten used to me passing by
the window, and though they frequently froze for a few
seconds staring with their liquid black eyes, when I turned
(21:48):
away to brush my teeth at the sink, they likewise
turned back to their work. My gray cat, Cinder knew
they were there, but kept away from the window so
(22:12):
that they wouldn't feel threatened. You may not believe that
that a cat would understand the situation and act in
that way, but she was not like other cats. She
(22:40):
was like an auntie, but in animal form. She found
the strays, the orphans, the lonely little ones, and matched
them up with human counterparts who needed them, needed a
(23:05):
soul to bring light into their home, someone to catch
all the love they needed to give. That is frequently
the cause of heartache, love with no one to give
(23:28):
it to. So Cinder and I play matchmaker among our
neighbors and friends and the creatures she finds, And believe
it or not, she wouldn't have wanted to scare those
(23:49):
doves any more than she would have left a lost
bunny out in the cold. So last spring the doves
had raised a little clutch of two eggs, and when
(24:12):
the babies grew big enough and learned to fly, they
started again with two more. The collective noun for mourning doves,
at least the one that stood out because of how
(24:34):
ill suited it felt, was piteousness. A piteousness of mourning doves,
No that wasn't right at all. It had been a
jubilance of doves, as far as I could tell, And
(25:01):
when the jubilants flew south for the winter, the little
nest sat empty and had filled with snow. Still it lasted.
(25:23):
They'd built it so well that even after the spring
melt and the strong winds blew, it sat sturdily on
the sill. Then this morning, as I groggily washed my
(25:45):
face at the basin, I heard a coup, that unmistakable
call of a dove, and I quickly pressed a towel
to my face and edged over to the window. There
(26:11):
on the sill, a fresh twig in her beak was
my friend, and she was patching up the family estate.
I stood there with the towel at my chin, a
(26:33):
huge smile on my face, feeling the cool tile under
my feet, but the warmth of the spring sun through
the window, and how good it was to share my
home with souls like Cinder and this family of day.
(27:04):
It made me think of something my grandmother would do
in the springtime, as birds and animals returned to her
own yard. She'd gather nesting materials and spread them around
(27:26):
the garden, leave them at the base of her bird
bath and near the black oil sunflower feeder. It was
a spring offering, and one that really helped. I'd read
(27:50):
a note in her handwriting in a margin of her
grimoire that if a right or ritual didn't actually accomplish
something useful or good, well, she didn't much see the
(28:13):
point when I found that her type of practical magic
best suited me as well. Some people liked to offer
up the hair from their brushes and combs for birds
(28:34):
to use, but Grandma had written that if hair was
longer than an inch, it could actually harm birds much
more than help them, So better to look for moss
and lichen, pine needles, and perhaps witchiest of all, cobwebs.
(29:06):
So Cinder and I started indoors, winding the duster into
the corners of the ceiling and shaking all the webs
out over the back porch. When I reached for my
(29:26):
sweater and bike helmet, Cinder meowed at my ankles. I'd
had a special basket installed for her at the bicycle
shop in the Alley down town. It had a cushioned
(29:47):
bottom and a seat belt that attached to her harness
so we could ride together. Are you up for a ride,
I asked, and leaned down to stroke her back. She
(30:12):
pressed her head into my hand and purred softly. A
few minutes later we were buckled into place, rolling down
the street toward the dirt roads. A few blocks over.
(30:36):
Cinder sat comfortably in her basket, her whiskers flickering in
the breeze as I peddled. When we turned down a
dirt road where a stretch of woods extended along beside us,
(30:59):
I slowed down, first to avoid the ruts that the
spring rain had deepened, and second to listen and smell
and feel for the things we were looking for. At
(31:24):
a certain point, like a compass arrow pulled toward north,
or a dowsing rod drawn to a vein of water.
The handlebars turned toward the verge, and I found a
(31:48):
spot to stop an unbuckle Cinder from her basket. She
jumped up onto my shoulder, where she liked to sit
like a queen, and we walked into the woods. I
(32:10):
had a small tote bag with me, and we wandered along,
pausing to fill it with handfuls of pine needle and
milkweed fluff. I found some saven leaved club moss, but
(32:35):
the clump was so paltry I hesitated to take any
I thought that if it had been further into the
warm weather a few weeks into June, when the cottonwood flies,
(33:00):
I could have taken that I'd have had enough to
stuff pillows. Then Cinder and I turned our heads in
unison toward a bright corner of the wood, intuition calling
(33:23):
us over ah a broad patch of mossy stone crop
sometimes called golden sedum. As I plucked handfuls to take
(33:47):
home for the birds to weave into their nests, Cinder
walked through the soft carpet to mourning doves like Sedom.
I asked her her taale flicked lazily, as if to say,
(34:14):
I suppose we shall see if they did. I thought
I'd write it into the Grimoire, an idea for a
rite of spring. Some descendant might read about one day,
(34:36):
recognizing my handwriting like I'd recognized grants, and be encouraged
to step out into a garden and offer up some
gift to the birds. Sweet dreams,
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