Most fairy tales start the same: once upon a time, long ago & far away, bippity boopity boop, this dream is for blonde girls, not for you.
We know with our rational mind that fairy tales aren't for real, but you'd be surprised how we subconsciously believe they are. We've (mostly) eliminated the possibility of a white knight rescue, but we've woven ourselves elsewhere in the yarn- as the quiet bookkeeper for instance, or the kitchen maid with the piping hot tea.
It's a school play where the main roles were given to the popular kids, & the rest of us are either part of the set or bored in the front row. Even if we're lucky enough to make it on stage (as a shrub or a tree, don't get excited), ain't nobody clapping for us. In fact, we're so busy blocking out distractions & being still, that we've totally checked out of the storyline. We don't even know what page of the script they're on.
Or that some radical, earth loving nature lover, snuck in & revised the story, making your tree the star of the show.
Since this is unprecedented territory, our celebrity has nothing to do with our lines. Everything we say is precisely right. We can do no wrong. The audience is bored of the king & queen routine, rotating the same tired phrases & flaunting the same old robes. It's easy to repeat what someone else wrote, like a ventriloquist doll (cue the crowd, laugh at the dummy), but it's much harder to do what you've done all along, which is to simply be yourself. Slowly the realization dawns that the spectators can't take their eyes off you, even if all you do is breathe.
Confused, the director takes note: viewers transfixed by what's behind the scenes??
Meanwhile, telling the main characters they're obsolete?? Those are the opening lines to a whole other story.
(Congratulations, you played yourself)
a monthly message, alchemized from the tarot cards, seasoned with intuition and life experience, served with love (sometimes with a side of spicy cussin)