A BOWLFUL FROM A SMALL CAULDRON

Sometime Stories for the Fully Fledged

Whimsical, tender, honey-sweetened medicines in manageable doses. 

All goodness and sincerity without complications.

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STORY LETTERS

With so much of our world right now being comunicated via online interaction, I noticed within myself a craving for something I could touch, smell, taste almost, welcome in with my whole body, not simply eyes, ears and fingertips. 

Alongside singing the tea into being, I loved writing letters for the Boxes of Wonderment sent out last winter and thought - what would it be like to offer those up separately?  To sit and write letters to strangers, and perhaps not so strange.  But not "hello, how are you letters" rather old fashioned story letters, carrying that curious tension of formal and intimate all in one place.

It's a journey I am interested in exploring. 

Will there be new stories created just for one person, or a treasured story memory shared this once more. 

Would you like to join the adventure? 

Would you like to receive a small story letter through the post?

Pay what feels right for you and I shall dust off the fountain pen, gather together the recycled papers and scurry to the postbox in my wooly hat and gloves.

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The Faerytale Apothecary quietly stepped out into the world at Beltane in 2019 and it has been such an incredible  journey so far, learning what works and what doesn't, naturally evolving with sometimes gentle nudges and other times steep learning curves.

Any of you who know the novel Chocolat by Joanne Harris will be familiar with the call of the North Wind, how when it arrives to knock at your door there is an almost inescapable need to follow it wherever it may wish to lead for there is never any way to know for sure.  You know it from other winds, it has a special kind of quality to it, an insistant tug to it so that even when you sigh with relief as you hide under the covers that it is surely gone, bored of your hesitancy, you only lie to yourself, for it just anchors in even deeper, squirrels about in the murk pulling at long forgotten threads.  Interestingly, it once led me to move to a place named after itself Ventnor - the North Wind and where, because of the landscape, the North Wind never reaches down to, is blocked by a line of hills and it's potency dispersed.

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Every so often, it's tug at my red cloak (a happy accident I had forgotten Vianne wore one) coincides with the smell of magicks that a change in season sweeps in with. 

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It is an interesting place to find oneself.

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It isn't quite urging me to move from town to town, well, not this year at least, but more to not fix myself to any one single way of sharing the magicks of sacred stories for a time.

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It dances about me with whispers of more story teas, of rattles singing stories, of woven story maps, of spell story cycles....this Wind-Magick hybrid is very excited with all it carries. I roll up my sleeves, I shake the dust from my apron, I rub my hands together with glee.  Okay, I say, but maybe not all at once, maybe one small cauldron full at a time?  The Wind-Magicks squint at me, sulk a little but agree, eventually...

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And so, at the Autumn Equinox last year, a new cycle of the Faerytale Apothecary began, with no fixed destination merely a curiosity of what might happen when This and That are plucked from branches with a curtesy of thanks and stirred together just to see what might emerge.

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It may be a never before seen something in search of a name, or an ancient of ancients something that to even think it's name may bring mayhem, it may be a reassuring something familiar and gentle.  This is the realm of stories after all, there is never any sure way to tell, apart from the idea that underpins it, to create a truly nurturing, nourishing experience, to deepen the sacred medicines of the stories and how they find us.

Always sent with love.

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