fairies

My dad once told me that everything my mind creates is real. That the very act of conceiving an
idea draws it out of dark nothingness and into the bright mosaic fabric of reality. That the beliefs,
imaginings, stories, and fantastical beings within my brain were, in fact, undeniable. This notion
comforted my budding mind for the implications it had on my flowering world.
First implication: books. As an invested reader, there was melancholy in knowing that the
musical elves living in shrouded forests, or the young, magical lovers battling evil demons, or the
sweet genius-boy and all his insecurities and dreams, were not real. How could they not be?
Id think despondently after spending the past five hours submerged in their very real thoughts
and emotions.
Second implication: Santa Claus. Of course Santa is real my dad would assure my widened
eyes. The bearded flesh and blood version puttering around my imagination was perhaps
different than the collective spirit of jolly generosity to which my dad referred. But I realize now
that they are one and the same. Santa Claus is incredibly real. (Of course at the time, I was happy
to learn about the secret parent-Santa correspondence website every parent gains access to upon
the birth of their child. That way they can help out Santa since it would be impossible for him to
reach every single child. Made sense.)
Third implication: fairies. This is where the garden in my mind exploded in fresh, fragrant spring
blossoms. Fairies flitted and fluttered splendidly through every aspect of my childhood. My
elementary school best friend, Olivia (fairy name: Peach) and I spent hours exploring the nooks
and crannies of my familys five acre property looking for tell-tale signs of our elusive friends.
The hole in the crooked, mossy tree down by the fence was a perfect storage site for fey trinkets.
A spattering of mushroom caps hidden near a rotting poplar stump was probably used for
dancing ceremonies. That thick bramble of pine boughs was most likely a fairy dwelling. Rainy
days were especially exciting. Id wake up to the pitter-patter of raindrops on my bedroom
window and immediately become Peapod, resident fairy spy. Even when Peach wasnt there to
help me, Id do the rounds. Rain jacket on, camera in pocket, Id make the long, deliberate tromp
around our verdant property. A glow of knowing shone in my eyes, smug grin perched on my
face. The fairies were there; pity the fools who didnt know what to look for!
There came a time when I stopped looking for fairies. Probably freshman year of high school.
But that does not mean I denied their existence. Every fairy-believer knows the one cardinal sin
is an utterance of disbelief. Even today, I cannot bring myself to utter those six fatal words. But
times change, priorities shift, and fairies flit only in the outskirts. Occasionally, when Im
walking along a squishy path under dense, dripping trees, my fairy sensors turn on again. Let me
tell you, those slender folk are just as elusive as they used to be!
Today, the garden of my mind is wilder. There are vines twisting up delicate flowers. Tangles of
dawn-colored morning glory threaten less aggressive sprouts. There are thick succulents, plump
greenish tomatoes, and soft-lobed groundcover. A pink hibiscus blossoms quietly in the corner,
petals soft and delicate like fairy garments. Blue hydrangea puff balls blush purple-pink from the
pennies I placed at their roots long ago. Some parts havent seen the sun in years and have taken
to rot and decay. Leaf skeletons litter the rich soil like dead wings.
My dad once told me that everything my mind creates is real. This notion takes on new, sinister
implications in a wilder mind. The monsters under my bed and in my mirror now pose real
threats. The Escher-like riddles of the universe are impossibly possible. I do not believe in God,
therefore he is real. The rejection or resistance of an idea merely provides distinction and
highlights the existence of said idea. How can I move past the judgements I pass on others and
myself? The grudges I procure? The self-hatred I fertilize? I convince myself that my flaws are
imagined, therefore they are incredibly, painfully real.
But there is beauty in reality. As Peapod, diligent fairy-spy, would know: the only things worth
pursuing at all are real. The creative power of imagination is the process that keeps my mind,
body, and soul running through life. A vital, whirring, renewable energy.
I sit at my dining room table in the waning sunlight, sky awash in crepuscular gradients enviable
by the most successful of painters. A candle flickers mischievously in the background. I wonder
where the elegant, leaf-clad fairies go in the winter. Ah, of course. They must ride south on the
backs of their kindred bird friends before it gets too cold. I imagine the snow fairies, draped in
frozen dew droplets, having delightful festivities high up in their glowing pine tree snow caves.
They are probably drinking juniper berry juice out of carved icicle glasses and toasting the latest
snow storm. Tinkling laughter floats along a gust of cold wind, barely perceptible to the world.
Loose the inhibitions of the mind. Let the nothingness take forms yet unheard of. I sow new
magic into the fertile soil of my soul. The candle flame flutters, curiously disturbed, in my
periphery.

-Sabrina Stein