Once long ago in the Kingdom of Kentuck lived Princess Carolina. Carolina was tall and fair and had especially beautiful feet with lovely high arches and 10 perfectly proportioned toes.
The castle where the Princess lived with her father and mother, the King and Queen, and her three brothers, the Princes, was rundown and remote. The King could not afford servants, so he treated the Queen and the Princess as his and the Princes' servants. "Draw my bath!," he would roar to whichever was nearby. "Where's my socks?" he would roar at the Queen every morning.
The Princes were known far and wide for their skills and heroism in the Games they played with their big wooden sticks and small hard balls. "Have you washed and ironed the Princes' uniforms that they will wear this day in the Gaming Competition?" roared the King to Princess Carolina. "Yes, Father, I am just finishing the third uniform" said Carolina. "You're too slow!" said the King, stomping off. As Carolina continued to iron, she noted the beautiful stitches, the raised embroidered numbers, and the fine cloth that the uniforms were made of. In contrast, her plain white blouse and shorts were made of thin cotton.
The King and Queen were unhappy with their only daughter. One day the King demanded that Carolina support the Princes in their Games by becoming a Leader of the Cheers. The Princess didn't want to do that. The Leaders of the Cheers wore silly short skirts and shouted silly slogans through bullhorns. She refused. The Princess wanted art and beauty in her life. To punish Carolina for disobeying him, the King forced the Queen to whack off the beautiful little pinky toe of the Princesses right foot. The Queen didn't want to do it, but the King demanded it, so it must be done.
"Alas, my foot is now ugly," the Princess thought silently as she watched drops of bright red blood fall onto the white tiles of the kitchen floor. "Now my foot will never fit perfectly into the glass slippers that Princes use to find their brides. I'll be the King's slave forever." After the Queen fled in horror from the kitchen, Caroline carefully picked up her severed toe, lovingly wrapped it in a bit of silk, and put it into a little box. She did not cry. Outside under a flowering cherry tree, where she escaped each night when the rest of the castle was asleep, where she gazed up at the bright white stars against the blackness and wished for beauty and art and maybe even for a Prince, she buried her poor little toe. The Princess came back night after night to dream of herself far, far away, in a Kingdom full of art and beauty.
On Sundays at the castle, cousins, aunts, and uncles gathered to feast around the big table. Chicken was always served. There was no need to call it "Fried Chicken" because it was always fried. Just call it "Chicken."
To prepare the chickens, the Queen and her sisters would chase the chickens around the henhouse until they caught some nice plump ones. With hatchets in hand, they would put the squawking chickens head on the chopping block and, with a quick chop, the chicken's head would drop to the ground. The chicken's body would hop up and run around the chicken yard spurting bright red blood on its white feathers. The womenfolk would then scald the chickens until all their feathers could be plucked off to lay their moist pink skin bare. After all the chickens were fried up extra crisp, the potatoes mashed, and the green beans cooked to death, the menfolk would take their places at the table. The women would serve the food to the men and hover around the table filling and refilling their plates with food and their goblets with sweet iced tea. After all their royal highnesses arose from the table to smoke cigarettes and get out their whittling knives, the womenfolk would sit at the table to eat the leftovers. Instead of sweet tea, they always drank black coffee with their food. Never with milk. It seemed to the Princess that the Queen and her sisters were always happier on Sundays than on any other day of the week, sitting around the table talking, eating, and drinking coffee.
Carolina was happier on Sundays too because, relieved of some of her kitchen duties, she was free to play with her cousins. They would climb and jump in the hayloft, swim in the creek, and tell each other stories. One of the stories Carolina's cousin told her was that all the males in the kingdom had little sticks and balls between their legs, extra equipment that they were very proud of. This, she explained, has something to do with the Games they played with their big wooden sticks and little hard balls. If a Prince was victorious in the Games, it meant that the little sticks and balls between their legs were very powerful, the best in the land, and they were greatly admired. "Why do the Leaders of the Cheers wear their silly skirts and cheer them on?, asked the Princess. "Because" said the cousin, "the Leaders of the Cheers have seen their Princes' little sticks and balls and have maybe even touched them." "That's why they cheer their Princes on at the Games. They want everyone to know that their Princes have the biggest and best sticks and balls across the land."
"Oh, I see. It's all about the men again. There's no glory in being a Leader of the Cheers. I'm glad I refused, even if I had to sacrifice my little pinky toe," said Carolina.
One Sunday evening, after all the chickens had been consumed, all the tea and coffee were gone, the cigarettes were smoked, and the whittled shavings of cedar sticks were swept up, Princess Carolina went outside to sit under her flowering cherry tree and dream her lovely dreams. As she looked up into the starry night, she saw one of the stars fall from the sky and turn into a perfect white dove. The dove perched on a branch of her tree. "The key is in the Green Castle," the dove said. "But how can I get there?" said the Princess. "You'll see. It will happen," said the dove as it flew back up into the starry sky.
The very next morning, the King entered the Queen's bedchambers to find her dead in her bed. Her heart had been plucked out. There it lay against the white sheets, a glob of bleeding red heart surrounded by a few stray white feathers.
The King was despondent. He was worried about who would draw his baths, find his socks, prepare his meals. He knew that Carolina would be too slow to do all of that and care for the Princes' uniforms. He determined immediately to leave the castle and travel across the land until he found a new wife.
The King of Kentuck after searching far and wide found his new bride, a widowed Queen who lived in the Green Castle in the Kingdom of PennsWoods. After they were married, the King and his new Queen sent for Carolina and her brothers, the Princes. Carolina packed all the fine uniforms and all of Carolina's white kitchen blouses and shorts and traveled seven days to reach their new home.
Carolina worried during every day of the journey, because she had heard stories about wicked stepmothers. When they finally arrived at the gates of the Green Castle, the Princess was amazed to see that the castle was three stories high, the kingdom full of chariots and beautifully dressed men and women, and most pleasingly that her new stepmother was kind and good. She was also rich and had servants to prepare the food and to keep the princes Gaming uniforms clean and pressed. Carolina was suddenly hopeful that she might find here in this Green Castle the art and beauty she had dreamed of. She realized that she would have to learn the language of this new land, which was very different from that spoken in the Kingdom of Kentuck. She noticed also that they roasted their chickens, and that now she would have to say "Fried Chicken" or "Roasted Chicken" if she wanted to be understood. It is "ice-ing" on top of a cake, not "aah-sin," she said over and over. Carolina practiced speaking their language until she was good enough.
One thing the Princess admired about her new stepmother was her ability to make beautiful music with a big stick. Carolina had no idea that something of beauty could come from one of the big wooden sticks. She had seen them used only in the Games. One day after listening entranced by the notes, Carolina asked her stepmother what the stick was. "It's called a bassoon, and it's made from carved zebrawood. It has holes poked into the wood in certain places," the stepmother said. "When I blow into this tube and put my fingers over the right holes, music comes out the other end." The stepmother then placed a beautiful piece called "Red River Valley" for Carolina. It was wonderful.
One day while exploring the grounds of the Green Castle, Carolina discovered an ivy-covered tower in a courtyard. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. "The key is in the Green Castle," she remembered the white dove saying to her. The Princess rushed into the castle to find her stepmother and excitedly asked her about the ivy-covered tower. Producing the golden key kept hung on a white silk rope, the stepmother explained that in the tower was a room called the Library, which housed Books, a place to keep written words of wisdom on paper. "There are ideas and pictures in the Books. Go see for yourself," said the stepmother.
Carolina was very excited. She rushed to the tower, placed the key in the lock, and ran up the steps to the Library. It was a quiet place with rows and rows of Books and down-stuffed chairs to sit on. She started leafing through the books she found on the shelves. She discovered a whole set of stories about a Princess Nancy from the Kingdom of Drew, who had her own open-top chariot and drove freely about the land picking up cute Princes and taking them with her on her adventures. She found another volume called "Gone With the Wind," about Princess Scarlett from the far off Kingdom of Tara. Tara was in the South, near the Kingdom of Kentuck, so Carolina couldn't wait to read Scarlett's story. Every day for the next twelve years, Princess Carolina went to the ivy-covered tower and chose a volume from the shelves. She was happy to finally have beauty and art in her life.
The King of Kentuck and his three Princes, however, had not come to such a good end. One day the King was served his Chicken Roasted instead of Fried. As he roared at the cook for preparing the wrong kind of chicken, he choked to death. The Princes found that without their father to urge them on they could no longer competed and win in the Games. They were forced to become fat salesmen of the big wooden sticks and balls needed to play the Games.
Widowed again, the good stepmother joined an opera company and moved to the New Kingdom of York, leaving the Green Castle and all the Books to Carolina, who found herself with everything she had longed for---except, of course, a proper Prince.
*********************************************************************

So, dear reader, this is what the Princess wants to happen next. She wants to meet a Knight,a Prince, or maybe even a kind Frog, perhaps one who has knowledge of medicine or science, who can fashion a little prosthetic right pinky toe. He will place the prosthesis on Carolina's toe and slip her again-lovely foot into a size 41 Birkenstock sandal. It will fit perfectly and they will live together happily ever after.

PS Thanks to Stephanie and Meg, whose words/ideas I borrowed (stick and Frog). Hope that's OK!

Sept 1. Patient (Pt.) Princess w/symptoms of mild depression--sleep disorder, dwells on bad news, phobias/fears of wild animals, hatchets, blood. Aversion to eating chicken, esp. fried.

Pt. neatly dressed in long expensive velvet gown, wears attractive crown on long flowing hair. Employed in publishing biz. 3 children--boys. Affect normal. Mood somewhat sad. Concentration and attention seem good. States symptoms began few months earlier after family visit to faraway kingdom. Pt. claims feelings "stirred up" by visit.

Dr. C: Tell me about your childhood. Normal delivery? Any early illnesses? Good relationships with parents and sibs? Toilet training at normal age?

Princess C: Born at home on farm. Healthy. "Normal" family relationships. Out-house trained at normal age.

Dr. C: umm....our hour is just abt. up. Here's a prescription I'd like you to try.

Princess C: Father ruled castle, mother weak/submissive. 3 Princes who played baseball. Parents pressure Princess to become cheerleader. Pt refuses, mother is forced by father to chop off Pt's little toe as punishment. Father treats Queen/Princess as his servants. Father "roars" commands. One recurring command for Princess to iron Princess uniforms. Father thought her "too slow." Pt. states that she frequently sat under flowing cherry tree/dreams of art, beauty, a Prince.

Dr. C: (Notes to self: Gender issue, In deep denial re "normal", Wild animal roars, Simpleton theme, and definitely was a virgin)

Princess C: Pt responds that when her clan moved to a faraway Northern kingdom she noticed that family dynamics different there. Pt states that fathers there loved and respected their daughters, that boy Princes helped around the house, that mothers were strong and got to make some of the decisions. Noted that none of her new friends had to so sock and bath duties, iron b-ball uniforms.

Princess C: States she wished she belonged to their families. They spoke with nice accent, bought their chickens already cut up, roasted them. They also had books to escape into.

Princess C: Pt responds that she read lots of books after moving to the Green Castle. States that she liked Nancy Drew, Gone with the Wind, Of Human Bondage.

Dr C: ( Note to self: Hmm--all strong women well aware of power of inner resources.)

Princess C: states feeling "much better." Has been wondering if anything in her childhood could be causing her symptoms?

Princess C: states recurring childhood nightmares about bloody scenes--chickens with heads chopped off, globs of bleeding hearts, drops of blood on a kitchen floor. Pt states that it was the women of her clan who had to do all the bloody work. They gave blood for their men but no honor or glory was given back. States that when men give blood they are honored--given medals. Why aren't women seen as heroes? All that bloody work, and they didn't even get to sit down to Sunday dinner until the men were finished.

Princess C: responds that she played bassoon. Sister used talent as way to escape castle. Pt wanted her own way to escape castle. Loved her sister but was nevertheless jealous of her talent. Pt. dreamed of being able to play piano. Sister also didn't want to be cheerleader and was resentful of princes-that's why she found her own stick to play with.

Princess C: reflects that maybe Books have been her "escape and rescue." Her "prince." Humm.

Princess C: states difficulty finding Prince. Has tried a couple of them but none just right. Admits to fantasy abt Prince or even Frog who can make her a toe and slip her foot into a perfectly fitting size 41 Birkenstock.

Princess C: States that is not what she expects from her love relationship. States that we must draw on our inner resources before we can move outward and form meaningful relationships with other people. We must be strong and hopeful and use a stick for support along the way if we need it.

Prognosis: Pt. Shd. Do well w/current regimen. Recognizes that she is resourceful/strong. Has acknowledged that weird family was dysfunctional. Pt. has hope for future. Long rest at quiet place would be helpful. I'll tell her abt. the castle @Bryn Mawr.

Liberty
Once upon a time, a handsome sea captain retired from the sea, and moved with his young playful wife to a small farm way far away in the countryside. Late in life they were sent a child, a girl whom they called Meggie. She was born with eyes that shone with spirit, wisdom and soul. Her parents loved her very much, but they were busy and forgot to look deeply into her eyes.
Meggie wore corduroy overalls, sturdy brown shoes, and a brown jacket that had once belonged to her brother. Her curly hair was wild and her fingernails were ragged and not especially clean. One day she went off to school. There she saw little girls dressed in frocks all covered with flowers and with smooth white collars. The little girls' hair was neatly brushed and parted into smooth curls and held in place by shiny gold barrettes. And their fingernails were tidy and clean. Meggie was happy though to play with the boys and didn't think she needed a dress or barrettes. After a time, however, she longed for a dress and smooth hair. She went to her busy mother.
Her mother could sail a boat, shoot a gun, milk a cow, ride or drive a horse, pitch hay, clean a fish, pluck a fowl, but combing a child's hair, finding the part for a barrette, and conjuring up a dress with flowers were beyond her. Meggie would stand next to a window in the farmhouse and wrap herself in the old curtains that had once hung in the family's grander houses and pretend she was dressed for a ball. Seeing her at play, her mother remembered a childhood friend who lived in the City to the North, home to a huge bell called Liberty. She put pen to paper. Soon a large parcel arrived and what do you think?
In side the big brown box were four beautiful dresses all covered in flowers of the most delicate and yet brilliant hues. Each dress had a perfectly stitched white collar, puffy sleeves, a beautiful full sash and the finest embroidered smocking all over its bodice. As her mother handed her the dresses, she whispered the words "Liberty lawn": soft as silky down to the touch and fit for a princess. In fact the dresses had come from a princess who lived in a palace of marble floors and liveried servants. These dresses were her own daughter's out grown frocks, sewn just for her in a foreign land.
Meggie wore her new dresses every day even to play alone on the farm. They were a little big because she was thin as a rail and the princess's daughter was plump and round, but with the big sashes wrapped around her waist twice, the dresses were almost perfect. When Meggie twirled and whirled in the dresses the skirts became full-belled kaleidoscopes of color and entranced her with their richness. She would twirl and whirl. Twirl. Whirl. Twirl. Whirl Twirl. Whirl. Liberty. Liberty. Liberty.
When she was 12, Meggie learnt to ride the farm horse. She galloped over fields, soared over fences and streams racing to find the beginning of the wind, the edge of other lands, the endless blue of the sea and the place where the world ends and the universe begins.
When she turned 15, she had two visitors. Her Fairy Godmother, Hilda, was a tall thin crone swathed in dark earth-colored strips of velvet and crushed silk. Her gray and black hair was wild, her eyes wilder. Hilda told tales of the real world, stranger often than those of fantasy. From her, Meggie learned to love stories and history, indistinguishable in their richness. The second visitor was Fairy Godmother Nancy, round and soft and dressed in gossamer with little lights all around her hem. Nancy spoke to Meggie of her friends, the wise fairies and the elves who lived all over the gardens and of beauty all around. From her, Meggie learned to love the mystical and the beautiful.
Meggie grew to womanhood and journeyed to a far off land where those long ago twirling, whirling, Liberty dresses had their beginnings. She visited castles, palaces and cathedrals. She met people from many lands of different faiths, color and customs. She drank in new ideas, sights, thoughts, and explored tiny corners and open moors of the landscape. She married a young squire in the far off land and lived there.
The squire then took her back to the land of her birth, to the City to the North, home of the bell called Liberty. Meggie learned the ways of the city and its history. She donned antique garb and guided visitors through its old streets and showing them the bell called Liberty and the birthplace of her land's liberty. She loved the mystery of the city and its people. Though whirling had become a bit beyond her by then, she sometimes twirled in her antique dress. Although it was made of dull green homespun, she remembered the magic in the Liberty lawn of her youth.
Then the squire from the far off land left her for another. This felt a bit like Liberty. But not as she had imagined it.
In time, she worked in huge palaces of learning which housed treasures of art and science. This felt a bit like Liberty. But not quite as she had imagined it.
Eventually she met a prince of the city and married him with a bishop's blessing. This felt a bit more like Liberty. But again not quite as she had imagined it.
Meggie and the prince were sent three beautiful children. This felt like Liberty. Just as she had imagined it.
Their first-born was a girl. She had eyes that danced with her spirit. In them her mother and father saw the world's spirit. The second born was a son. He had eyes that shone with his wisdom. In them his mother and father saw the world's wisdom. The third born was yet another son. He had eyes that burned with his soul. In them his mother and father saw the world's soul. Their parents named them Liberty, Liberty, and Liberty for when they looked deeply into the children's eyes they felt a love so great and strong they were all, parents and children, set free.
Meggie dressed her daughter in Liberty dresses which were actually quite precious and caused some hardship for the family. But Meggie wanted her always to have Liberty. Her sons she dressed in sailor suits. Around their necks each wore a silken lanyard attached to a small silver whistle. These costumes too were precious and a bit beyond the family's means. Nonetheless it was important to Meggie that the boys have the same sense of Liberty.
The children climbed trees, camped in their big wood, sailed their little skiffs on the lake, rode their shaggy ponies over the meadows and through the streams. They laughed and sang and whistled all day long. Their beautiful and rich clothes were often mended by their mother who loved their Liberty but sometimes sighed and scolded about the tears and rents.
The children loved their mother as all children do. Because they didn't want her to be sad or cross, they soon stayed inside even on the balmiest days. They rarely left their third floor nursery at the top of the house. They put puzzles together. They read the big picture books. They painted pictures of the out of doors. They took turns on their big window seat just gazing out the window down at the wood, and over the meadows and the streams. Their cheeks paled. Their eyes dimmed. Gradually their wistful gazing turned to sleep, deeper and deeper sleep. Even Maggie's kisses could not wake them.
Meggie was distraught. She brought them sweet treats from the oven. They could not smell them. She brought them new kittens from the stable. They could not stroke them. She brought them new stories about pirates and princes. They could not hear them. She brought them pretty pictures of far off lands. They could not see them. She told them silly riddles. They could not laugh. In her sadness, she opened their wardrobe and there all neatly mended and pressed were their dresses and sailor suits. Meggie stroked each one and let her tears fall. Silently she wished her children had just come into the house from the meadows with smiles and laughter and new tears and rents in their clothing. As she held the fabric in her hands, the flowers on the dresses began to bloom afresh, and the little whistles began to sing.
She turned to her children with these clothes in her arms. She saw their cheeks blush with pink, their eyelids flutter, their eyes open and their faces break into smiles and life. Next they danced out from under their counterpanes. As their mother smiled, they threw on the dress and the suits and raced downstairs and out the door into the world. As Meggie was watching closely, she saw: the spirit, wisdom and soul burning again in their young eyes as they dashed past her. And if their mother was listening closely she might have heard the whispered refrain, "Liberty. Liberty. Liberty."
finis

Bruno Bettelheim stated that fairy tales help children meet their psychic needs by helping the child "to transcend the confines of a self centered existence". 1 He believed that fairy tales help a child to develop his intellect, emotions, imagination, and aspirations and help him recognize his problems and anxieties.2 In short he felt meaning in life will be obtained by becoming acquainted with fairy tales at an early age. Bettelheim seemed to believe fairy tales would set a child's feelings in order by providing archetypes for dependence, fear, love, anger, adventurousness, competence, jealousy, loneliness, and abandonment.3 They, he inferred, teach children the truth of their lives.4 Fairy tales, Bettelheim asserted confirmed children's complex and varied feelings and furthermore promised them optimism in less than happy life situations.5 In fact, he felt that the upbeat message contained in fairy tale made them "love gifts".6 Children deprived of these stories might feel disoriented and abandoned. Children reared on fairy tales understand true justice and never feel abandoned.7
Bettelheim felt that most successful fairy tales consist of an abandoned innocent who suffers betrayal and torment at the hand of step family and witches, is saved by a fairy godmother, fights dragons or other obstacles, separates from an early protector, finds true romantic love, and discovers autonomy. This is quite a formula.8
I agree with Bettelheim when he advises making the process of imparting fairy tales warm and intimate so that the child feels "understood in his most tender longings".9 In fact, I think the telling is more important than the tale alone for it is in the intimacy (into me see) that children are acknowledged and affirmed in the spirit and the mind. I think children's psychic needs can be met in part by parents who acknowledge their children for who they are as they were created and by parents who accept their children's feelings even when shocking or painful to the parent. I think introducing children to a transcendent, mystical and loving entity further helps to fulfill their psychic needs. Reynolds Price speaks of the un-churched undergraduate thirst for the mystical poets. He is not referring just to his own faith in a particular church and its God but to the wider universe of the spirit. Madeleine L'Engle and C.S. Lewis recognized in their tales children's craving for and delight in the transcendent.
In my tale, Maggie is loved but perhaps not for the person she feels she is. The dresses meet her needs, as they are soft (or nurturing). Beautiful (or aesthetically enriching). Intricately made by hand (or with great love). Flowering (or creatively encouraging). The dresses representing Liberty lead her on a developmental journey. As a prepubescent girl she transfers her love to riding a horse, a classic symbol of female empowerment and autonomy. As an adolescent she is receptive to two adult mentors who affirm and define her interests. Nancy and Hilda are offbeat and appeal to her as trustworthy ageless adults who seem to know her needs and desires better than her parents. Meggie, as a young adult, ventures on a quest to have more needs met. She travels, studies, and tries romantic love. Finally, in her own children she finds Liberty or freedom of unconditional love or agape. She looks deeply into their beings and is given the gift of seeing their spirit, soul and wisdom. Her needs are met in that she witnesses their essence. Through connecting with her children she sees the mystery she has been searching for, a deep and profound timeless love.
Bettelheim might recognize some of his criteria for fairy tale archetypal metaphors in this first section: the innocent abandoned, the magic gift, the fairy godparents, and the quest. But I think he would have thought the ending a bit preachy and spiritual and moral. I don't think it would be grounded in enough archetypes at the end: no prince to represent the balm of earthly love or kingdom to represent autonomy.
I feel that the second part of the tale (added in the second rewrite - thanks to a wise Fairy Godmother's advice) has more psychic truth for me. In it, Meggie is more fully evolved. Not only is she obviously adult, she has become a giver of love, no longer just a seeker. Even so it is human love, one limited by conscious or un conscious mixed motives. She wants her children to have what was not given freely to her from birth: recognition of a child's needs for softness, beauty, nurturing and creative encouragement. So despite some hardship she provides them with the special clothing that helped her on her journey. Dismayed by what to her is their carelessness of these special gifts she lets her children know, consciously or unconsciously, her disappointment. They feel for the first time something conditional in her love. The children respond by giving up their gifts of joy and laughter and retreating from life. Only by truly repenting and feeling her profound loss in a most authentic manner (and implicitly recognizing her control) does Meggie bring the children to life again. She has learned that love and spirit, soul and wisdom cannot be possessed or controlled or augmented by conditional gifts.
If the first half of my story is pretty much a Bettelheim fairy tale, I think the second half is more a parable. The gift given (the creation) is the children and their transcendent qualities. Even the landscape they inhabit is gift, a paradise of sorts. The gift taken away(sin or separation from self, others or God) is the conditional and controlling love shown through Meggie's disappointment of the torn clothing. The near death of the children is a realization of the gift being lost(judgement). The genuine remorse felt by Meggie is a realization that she misses the gift and is responsible for its loss(repentance). The revival of the children and their return to a bucolic paradise is the gift restored(redemption).
Formulaic? Yes, but my psychic needs are better met by this second formula of a parable. Maybe that's because the protagonist creates her own obstacles, becomes at least partially aware of her own responsibility for them through her grief and is given the means to make amends through the grace of her mourning. Of course the redemptive restoration of the children is still full of magic. Or mysticism. For me the second half holds a more integrated and profound Love gift. It also fills me with optimism for personal, but also universal, redemption. If it worked for an old cynic like me, it could, if taught with discernment, I feel, help many more. I think I feel this optimism because the protagonist loses such a huge gift and regains it. The struggle is nearly all internal but, to me, its resolution is tinged with external mystery and filled with " grace abounding". As an adult I am more consoled by the resolution of a realistic internal conflict than an external conflict of the archetypal fairy tale. Is this consolation a matter of a developmental change in perception of our place in the world as we move from childhood to adulthood? I suspect it is.

1Bettelheim, Bruno, "Reflections: The Uses of Enchantment." The New Yorker(December 8,1975): 50-114 Numbered for this article 1-15 p.1
2Ibid.,p.1
3Ibid.,p.1
3Ibid.,p.10
4Ibid.,p.1
5Ibid.,p.5
6Ibid.,p.5
7Ibid.,p.14
8Ibid.,p.5
9Ibid.,p.15

There once was a land many referred to as a jungle, but it was no ordinary jungle. It was a Concrete Jungle. Midnight-black asphalt and dinghy, grey cement comprise the landscape. It never gets dark in this jungle. Darkness is held at bay by the illuminations of neon signs proudly blinking, declaring, "Eat At Joe's."
None of the houses stand alone. They crowd together, touching each other, afraid of losing contact. Despite the best effort of the houses, those living inside have no connection to their neighbors. The houses squeeze together more, thinking that if they get close enough, a sense of community will develop. The only thing that develops is the bank account of the house builders.
The constant whir of too many motorized conveyances drowns the squawking of the crows and vultures sitting atop the beautiful capital building. The conveyances have a mystical power over the natives forcing them to use nothing but the foul machines. The people develop a thickening of the waist area from their dependency on the conveyances.
At the end of each driveway sits a carefully placed mound of garbage emanating a noxious odor. The foul air destroys any hope of vegetation. Passers-by are disoriented and confused by the garbage. Thinking it a new form of art, they carefully help themselves to the wonderful treasure, only to realize their bonanza is nothing more than a pile of rubbish, rubbish that infests their homes with thousands of little creepy-crawly creatures.
In addition to language, the people of this land use finger gestures to communicate. A particular favorite of the natives is to extend the third digit of either hand as a show of deep emotion.
Once upon a time, in a place far away from this jungle ? in a land of cows and plenty, a horrible ogre fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Renee. Unfortunately, Renee became ill. The ogre knew not how to accept someone who was unable to run and jump. He wanted a wife who was hearty and able to produce strong baby ogres, but Renee could never be that wife. The ogre was consumed with anger. Seeing Renee's differences reminded the ogre of what he wanted but knew he could never have in a wife. Renee could not be like the other ogre wives. The ogre felt he was lacking something in life because of Renee. The other ogres would never look up to him if his wife were different. Renee was a burden. The ogre became so enraged, that he traded three goats and a Dunkin Donuts coupon for a spell to banish Renee from his life.
The spell worked extremely well. Renee was forced to leave the land of plenty to move to the Concrete Jungle. Renee applied to the rulers of the jungle, but they were too busy to hear her plea. The rulers had more important things to discuss. A decision needed to be made as to fare to be served at the annual rulers' picnic.
The move had a devastating effect on Renee. The confined quarters, the constant noise, the horrid odors, the lack of stars in the night sky proved to be Renee's undoing. She became so weak she could no longer fight her illness. Before she could not run. In this land, she could no longer walk.
Renee sought a cure for her condition, but none were available. All of the really good spells had already been taken. There was, however, an old washerwoman with a stick. This was no ordinary stick. It had magical powers. Renee traded two chickens and a book of Anne Sexton poems for this magical device.
With the assistance of the stick, Renee was able to imitate a form of walking. More hobbling than walking, Renee was able to maneuver from here to there. But the stick had adverse side effects. Renee's illness was now evident to all and they assumed she was not whole, not good enough. "Carrying a stick does not change the inner strength and character of a person," Renee cried. But no one listened.
Renee was banished from using regular bathrooms. She was forced to use the one with the odd picture on it, the sign of a large circle with a protruding knob. The sign has no gender -- just a large circle signifying a blob -- a mass of wasted flesh.
Renee was denied employment because of the stick. "You can not do your job if you need to carry that tree limb. You are weak to depend on a piece of wood." She heard this time and time again. Without a means of supporting herself, Renee was forced to beg the rulers of the land. The rulers gave Renee a minimal pittance to get her to leave their beautiful capital building so they could return to planning their monthly luncheon. The allotment from the rulers was so small, Renee was forced daily to eat Ramen Noodles.
Renee knew there was a better life for her. She recognized the deep longing for more, but she did not know what to do. Renee wallowed in misery.
One day a boy from the concrete jungle tried to steal Renee's stick. Anger coursed through her veins. Finally, Renee had had enough. "How dare you take my magic stick?" she yelled. Renee walloped the young boy across the shoulders with her stick, and the boy fell to his knees. Renee smacked him again and again with her stick. The boy howled in agony. Renee realized that he was an evil spirit sent by the jungle natives who feared Renee. She continued to beat the boy-spirit until he transformed to his true shape of a snake and slithered away. He had failed in his attempt to rid the jungle of the Renee, a threat to the conformity of their lives. Different is irregular.
Flush with her success, Renee had a renewed sense of purpose. She knew she must end her misery, but how? Renee thought, "Wouldn't it be great if answers were sold at the corner McDonald's?" Finding no answers on the menu board, Renee returned home. As she hobbled slowly home, she heard a cry for help from inside a mailbox. Renee rescued an owl from within.
"I was trapped in this mailbox by an ignorant mob. You have saved me from being sent to Latvia. For this I will grant you anything from this Sears & Roebuck catalogue," said the sage old owl.
Renee thought of the fulfillment the owl could grant her, but sensing the loneliness the owl suffered, Renee made a different request. "I have but one humble desire. Would you become my friend?" she asked.
The owl was so touched that she became Renee's constant companion. The owl encouraged Renee to get an education, vaporizing anyone who would stand in the path of Renee reaching this goal.
Renee knows the education will not cure her illness. But she also know education will cure the illness of ignorance. Education is the strongest weapon she can have. Education eradicates insults. Education brings about understanding. Education leads to compassion. If everyone gets an education, hate would be gone from our lives. Renee is hoping that with her weapon of education, she will be able to find owls for others. And with the owls' help, an education can be had for all.

****************************************************
The author's voice is quite apparent in this fairy tale. Her sense of humor may not be pleasing or even obvious to all who read this "fancy." The vultures sitting atop the government building and the alternate forms of communication both testify to the wittiness of the author. She has even been called a "Quip Master" by some, albeit only by those administering the Meyers-Briggs test.
What is most apparent in this tale is the author's pain. The injustices inflicted by the regular world are harsh. When a person does not fit into that world, it becomes a nightmare. The degenderizing (I made up a word) of the handicap symbol is a severe blow to an already fragile ego of a disabled person. The reader yells, "Hooray!" as Renee uses her magic stick to beat the evil spirit, when, in truth, Renee is furious that she even has possession of the stick. If she were normal, an evil spirit would not have attacked her nor would she have had the need to defend herself.
Being ill is not the most severe blow to Renee. It is being perceived as being not good enough for the one she loves. Her body betrays her, the world betrays her, the one she loves betrays her. This can not be adequately put into words. Because of the confines of our language, the feelings of rage, humiliation and despair are not appropriately conveyed to the reader.
The ending seems unfinished and incomplete. It does not seem to reflect the true depth of feelings of the author. The ending lacks the same conviction and voice as the balance of the fairy tale. The ending leaves the reader feeling dissatisfied and resentful. The reader feels let down by the author. No real issues were resolved. It is great to have an idealistic dream for eradicating the problem of ignorance, but as no solutions were introduced, ignorance will continue to grow and even flourish.

Long ago, in a palace constructed of brick and mortar, there lived a kind-hearted princess. The castle was more like a dungeon really, surrounded as it was by cement and asphalt. It was also most unfittingly named "Green Acres."

A quiet girl, the princess had an interesting face. Her dark owl eyes were keen and missed nothing. She had flaxen hair, which hung in frizzy tendrils down the length of her back. Early on, the princess had discovered she possessed two inexplicable magical powers: she was invisible to a great many people, and few seemed able to hear her voice. In addition to these gifts, she carried the burden of ignorance.

The princess lived at Green Acres with her MotherQueen, and brother DarkPrince, as well as the elders who ruled the house, GrandmotherQueen and GrandfatherKing.
Having been born to an unhappy couple, the princess's days had always been filled with sadness. The father, knowing he would never be King, left the palace in search of a new life, thus sending the MotherQueen into a bitter and resentful spell all the rest of her days. Unable to sleep in her former chambers, MotherQueen had moved into the princess's meager room, and there she would stay for the next fifteen years.

Nary a day would pass without GrandmotherQueen reminding the children and their MotherQueen that they were all welcome to stay in her castle as long as they wished, so long as they remembered to pay her copious amounts of gratitude on the 15th of every month.

Over the years, DarkPrince had come to despise the princess for her goodness, which he felt only magnified his (perceived) failings. He had been the sole heir before she came along, then DarkPrince was forced to share the scraps of attention with her, and there simply were not enough to go around. While the princess did indeed love her brother, these affections were tempered by the fear she had for his black moods and aggressive behavior. DarkPrince easily concealed from the elders his wild activities throughout the Kingdom and his abuse of magic pills and potions. The King and Queens were blind to his addictions, but the princess -- having witnessed much -- sought to confront DarkPrince and alert the elders of all she knew so that she might save him. Her magical powers, however, interfered greatly, and sadly no one heard her.

The princess adored her GrandfatherKing. A tall man, standing regally at 6 feet, 4 inches, he wore a head of thick, white hair and had the soul of a dove. She enjoyed walking hand-in-hand with him, and delighted in having to run four quick steps to equal his one. He was GrandmotherQueen's second King and therefore of no blood relation to the princess, yet their bond to one another was sound. This connection triggered much jealousy in GrandmotherQueen and she began to arrange for GrandfatherKing to spend more time in Noble City. When he was home for supper, GrandmotherQueen would often sprinkle her poisons into the GrandfatherKing's milk, in an attempt to sour his affections for the princess. But no matter how strong she mixed the tonic, the potion succeeded only in making him drowsy.

On many evenings, the princess would retire to her room to rest or read a favorite book, only to find MotherQueen sitting on the edge of the bed, mindlessly chatting on the phone, a small pile of used and twisted cigarettes smoldering in a nearby vessel of ashes. From her bed, the princess would stare at the smoke as it swirled endlessly out of the MotherQueen's nostrils and mouth, momentarily blurring the woman's physical beauty, while exposing her true Dragon features. How the princess wished the entire Kingdom could see the MotherQueen in her raw and beastly reptilian form.

Often the girl would pull the quilts over her head, trying to escape the fumes, but their weight proved too hot to bear. Seething, she would gaze across the room at the glow from the orange plastic lamp, wishing it were possible to blow it out from where she lay, in order that she might for once be able to rest in total darkness. She would scream out, but no one heard. The princess well remembered the times she'd dared to complain about the living conditions. The MotherQueen's Dragon head had turned swiftly, snapping at her "You spoiled cretin -- learn to sleep with the light on!"

MotherQueen was an unkempt woman caring little where she laid her garments. She'd seized all the space in the wardrobe, leaving three small drawers for all the princess's worldly goods. DarkPrince, who occupied the next room, begrudgingly shared a bit of his closet space with the princess.

Rising early for her schooling proved difficult, especially if MotherQueen had been out with other local Royals the night before -- and this happened often. The princess would cautiously rouse the snoring Dragon, as was her job, being certain to move quickly out of the way of its' wicked tail. Then, tiptoeing into the DarkPrince's shadowy chambers, she would hastily choose her day's dress, praying the noisy door hinges would not reveal her presence.

Downstairs, GrandmotherQueen and GrandfatherKing had already left the palace for their day's work, and the princess would not see them till after dusk. Dutifully, GrandmotherQueen would leave provisions on the table for the children each morning. She would also set enough coinage at their places so that they might afford riding the noble buses of the Kingdom to and from the palace.

Years passed, and the princess's existence continued much the same. She failed to thrive and thus was of smaller stature than her peers.

MotherQueen eventually took a new husband, and moved the princess out of the familiar Kingdom, keeping her locked in the ApartmentTower of their new dwelling. No friends or relatives ever came to call. DarkPrince had been granted special permission to stay with GrandmotherQueen at the palace, thereby fulfilling his wish to become an only child once more. MotherQueen's new mate was an old man - a drunken ogre. The princess avoided him at all costs, and learned to cook and clean for herself. Now that she had a room of her own, she was free to read vast amounts of books without anyone noticing. So began her long journey toward the Land of Knowledge - the bonds of ignorance loosening.

Inspired by stories in her books, yet limited by the views from her window, the princess started to plan her escape. One evening while MotherQueen was out; the princess was able to secure the keys from the ogre's fist as he lay snoring in an inebriated stupor at the dining table. The princess simply unlocked the main door and was free. She set out to discover the world and soon found work at various places of knowledge. It was there that she learned about the Secret Path to Enlightenment. She was told that she could free herself of ignorance if she traveled that Path, and once she made it to Enlightenment, there would be other opportunities.

When GrandmotherQueen heard about princess's escape and her discovery of the Secret Path, she angrily told all the members of the NobleFamily that the princess had proved to be an ungrateful child who had turned her back on her elders. "Who was she to go on this fool's mission?" GrandmotherQueen demanded, further reminding them that no other member of the NobleFamily had dared travel to Enlightenment before and the princess was shaming the family by so doing. Members of the NobleFamily joined in GrandmotherQueen's wrath and scorned the princess for her thoughtless and misguided actions. The princess, however, was defiant. She was angry to have had all knowledge of the Path hidden from her all these years. She was determined to journey onward.

Months passed, and at times the princess found herself longing to hear the voice of her gentle GrandfatherKing. He was older now, and his spirit had dimmed somewhat. GrandfatherKing had never spoken out against her like the others, and this was the only thought that comforted the princess. At times she even missed the ill attentions of DarkPrince - any companion would be better than such utter solitude.

Three years into her journey, the princess had grown weary. She came upon an orchard where the Path split into a multitude of trails, none of which was clearly labeled. Overwhelmed by her loneliness, she felt she would collapse. In need of nourishment, the princess took apples from one of the trees, and drank fresh water from the nearby creek. Still despondent, she began to question her mission and life in general. "Maybe I am on a fool's mission," she thought. For a moment, she considered turning back.

When she looked up she saw an elderly, disheveled man hobbling toward her. He crossed the water with the unmistakable purpose of interrupting her lonely respite. "He can see me," she thought, surprised; it had been so long since anyone had been able to. The man appeared to be a gentle soul and asked if he could sit with her. Usually, the princess was not one to be inhospitable, but at that moment she had to feign kindness in welcoming his company. She tried to smile and be charitable, but her spirits were low, and she did not want to visit with anyone -- much less this grimy stranger. "Why isn't my invisibility working now?" she wondered.

Within minutes, the man began telling the princess that he knew her history. As proof of his knowledge and wisdom, he proceeded to relay the details of her life, secrets that only she knew. Speechless, the princess's heart began to race, as it became clear that this man - the very one she nearly turned away - was a Messenger sent from the Future. He knew of her terrible unhappiness and assured her she would choose the right Path, and must continue on her journey. He brought for her the message of hope. Then the Messenger rose and bid her farewell, walking away. Standing now, but unable to move from her spot, the princess called after him, "Will I ever see you again?" she asked. And placing his hand over his heart, he replied "I'm here every day; I've always been here."

Tears streaming down her face, the princess turned and was again confronted with having to choose a route. Some of the trails were easy to eliminate, as they were most unwelcoming. One appeared dreary and threatening, another was filled with thorny bushes. The Path turning back was the scariest of all. Yet how was she to choose from among the others -all of which were equally inviting? One trail looked vibrant and colorful, another was brimming with nourishment. As she was trying to decide, the scent of lilacs and their promise of spring and life anew suddenly captivated her. She followed this course through a brief but harsh winter after which she was led into a warm and brilliant sunshine.

Overhead flew a mysterious, silver-winged metal bird, which alighted farther down the Path. Somewhat frightened, the princess hid behind a nearby bush. Her curiosity, however, refused to let her run. She went closer. Had this enormous horseless carriage come from the heavens? Slowly, the great door opened, and out stepped a beautiful man. He wore a fine hat, and was cloaked in ceremonial dark navy garb. His robe had silver stripes on the shoulders, and he wore a winged pin upon his chest. As he walked toward her, he spoke softly. "I've come from the Land of Your Future. My name is Love." His eyes were honest and welcoming. He extended his hand, and the princess was startled by the power of his touch. When he asked -- she quite forgot her own name, so he gave her a new one. He called her "Precious."

This kind man could not only see her, but listened to her as well. He took her into his flying carriage and showed her all the Kingdoms from above. The view was magnificent and put the Path to Enlightenment into great perspective. The princess could clearly see where she had veered from the Path at times, and traced her footprints back to where she found it again. From here she could also see the many other roads beyond Enlightenment. Everything made sense from this vantage point, and she marveled over how her steps along the way fit together like a puzzle, leading her to this very moment. Love explained to her that the Land of Your Future was nestled in the heart of Enlightenment.

The princess knew that she wanted to spend the rest of time in Love's arms. This elegant man wanted very much for her to be his wife. She accepted, and took his name, glad to have put aside her father's. With Love by her side, she learned to trust.

Together they built their own life and Kingdom on the highest hill in Enlightenment, and to this day, they rule their world and continue to live very happily.

The End

The story tells of the life of a girl growing up under unfortunate circumstances. She is small in stature and insignificant to her family.

When the girl comes of age, she escapes her oppressive environment to live her own life. Her journey on the "Path of Enlightenment" continues throughout the rest of the story, and the path is symbolic of life's learning.

Years later, the girl (weary from her travels) arrives at a place in the road that splits into many different trails leading to unknown places. Exhausted and overwhelmed, she must decide on her own which path to follow.

A Christ-like "Messenger" from another realm appears at this point (although the author tells me she is not particularly religious).

While traveling the new path, the girl meets "Love" (in the form of a man) for the first time in her life. She is in awe of "Love's' magnificence and "Love" carries her away, giving her a new perspective on her life's journey. She is not invisible to this man, and through "Love," she learns to trust.
* * * * *
The story works in that there is a definite shape. It has a beginning, middle and end. The descriptions and details are revealing and set up the story nicely. Its theme of finding love has universal appeal, and there is magic or mysticism sprinkled throughout.

One weakness of the story is that it is told on a personal level. (Lisa acknowledges she needs to pull back a bit more to appeal to a larger audience.)

This story may be powerful enough to meet the psychic needs of individuals who have grown up in neglect and without love, or it may seem to good to be true.

The author realizes the ending may be considered sappy to some, however she insists it is based in reality. Perhaps that fact in and of itself can give hope. To-date, Lisa and her husband have had a unique and loving relationship for 17 years.

"Dear people,
I'm writing to express the depth of my pride in our beautiful and fascinating glockenspiel. In its depiction of the heroic victory of the ancient Greeks at the city of Troy, it instills in all of us a sense of pride in our city and an example to our children of the glory of heroism and the necessary sacrifices that come in times of war that ensure eventual victory. In spite of their differences, the Greeks came together and through strength and intelligence won a victory over a people who had greatly wronged them. The example of this great story is a lesson to us all.
Huzzah for the glockenspiel."

The very next day, there were two letters in response. The first of these two was brief and largely ignored, from a professor of Classics at the university. She pointed out that technically there were no actual Greeks at the time of the Trojan War, and that the people in question referred to themselves as Achaeans.
The next letter was much longer and received a great deal more attention.
"Dear people,
I am moved to respond to yesterday's letter in reference to our beautiful glockenspiel. I fear the author of that letter has deeply misunderstood the significance of the example set by the sublime and deathless tale told atop City Hall every day.
The story is an example for us all, young and old alike, of the futility and waste of war. In the story, we see many lives lost and a great city laid waste, all over one woman. We see that there were no winners in this war. At the end, in spite of their supposed victory, what did the Greeks have? Menelaus got his faithless wife back and Achilles lost his life. If they had never gone to war, what would be different? Menelaus could have found another wife. Achilles would still be alive. Everyone would be at peace.
This story is a warning. Peace is the only way."

There was a third letter the next day, again largely ignored, from the same professor of Classics. She pointed out that it was a mistake to ascribe the desire to bring about the return of Helen as the sole cause of the Trojan War, a misunderstanding that stemmed from an ignorance of the Homeric concepts of time/ kai/ dike/.
The two letters that anyone paid any attention to became the subjects of conversation throughout the town. Example or warning? Peace or war? The townspeople began to take sides on the issue.
"If we all stick together," one side claimed, "we can do anything, in spite of our differences. That's the message of the clock."
"No," cried the other side, "the message is that we need to look at the underlying systemic causes of war to see the futility of the whole enterprise. War is not the answer. That's the real message."
The two sides became angry with one another. "You're destroying our coherence as a group with your cowardly insistence on seeing the story as a warning," the argument went. "We need group unity to survive a crisis, and by disagreeing with us, you're destroying our unity."
"That's a specious argument," went the response. "We need to understand a crisis in order to survive it, and your insistence on unity undermines understanding."
People began to wear buttons proclaiming various slogans that identified the side of the argument on which the wearer stood. Marriages broke up over the argument. Young people became estranged from their parents. Finally, things got so out of hand that a meeting of the whole town was called to resolve the issue. The people met in the town square at the hour of the embassy to Achilles.
Speakers from both sides presented eloquent defenses of both interpretations. A professor of Classics stood up and told them they were all wrong and needed to learn Homeric Greek to really understand, but everyone ignored her.
Finally, the town appealed as a group to the clock maker. "Please tell us," they begged, "why did you choose that story for our clock? What were you trying to say to us? Tell us the answer, so we can all go home."
The clock maker, astonished that anyone would see him as an authority on the subject, stood to speak. An expectant hush fell over the crowd.
"Well," he said, "it was a respectable old story with lots of different characters that would keep the hours interesting. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn't know it meant anything at all. After all, it's just a story."
The meeting dispersed quietly.
Over the next few days, the town remained unusually quiet. People seemed lost and confused, and they went about their days with a sense of detachment and purposelessness. The old argument was forgotten, but it was not replaced. There was a vacancy.
Eventually, things picked up and life went on, but the town had changed. The glockenspiel was no longer a source of wonder and curiosity. It became merely background. The clockmaker's elaborate constructions fell out of fashion as people began to favor very simple and severe designs for clocks. New houses were built to look like large shoeboxes, with none of the fanciful details that had once been popular.
The glockenspiel became a source of embarrassment for the town. It represented the old, the outdated, the uselessly fantastic. The binoculars were pulled up and the lenses converted to useful scientific instruments. No one was interested in the details of craftsmanship that now seemed such a waste of time.
Shortly after the binoculars disappeared, a letter was printed in the paper.

"Dear people,
It is in the best interests of our modern and prosperous city to remove the awful old glockenspiel from City Hall and replace it with a large lighted electronic atomic clock. The new clock would keep accurate time and align us with the fast pace of the modern world, without all the distracting and useless detail of the present glockenspiel. The glockenspiel is an embarrassing reminder of a childish phase in the development of our city.
Tear down the glockenspiel!"

The townspeople took up the cause with enthusiasm. They appealed to the clock maker to construct a large and sensible electronic atomic clock to replace the glockenspiel.
The clock maker, who was tired of making boxy alarm clocks in the new fashion, wept when he heard the plan. He loved the old glockenspiel and had no sympathy or understanding for the new taste for the plain and sensible.
"Don't you find the glockenspiel beautiful any more? Look at the carvings! Think of the exquisite complexity of the mechanism! The new clock you want is dull and sterile. I won't make it."
The townspeople were angry. They called the clockmaker old and reactionary and out of date. They said his glockenspiel represented bourgeois sentimentality. They said that real art was minimalist and conceptual in nature, and that the glockenspiel was tasteless in its pointless representational form.
All this baffled the clock maker. Had the world changed so that beauty wasn't beautiful any more? In sadness and confusion, he went down to the university to talk to learned people and find out what was going on.
A certain professor of Classics was delighted to see him. She had been waiting a long time to talk to him.
"What has happened?" the clock maker asked her. "Why doesn't anyone like the glockenspiel any more?"
The professor said, "People have a hard time seeing beauty naked, just as it is. They need an interpretation for it, a structure and a framework. They need meaning. They need to be able to read themselves in a story. If you take that away from them, the story looks pointless rather than beautiful."
"What can I do?" asked the clock maker. "How do I give them back meaning? I don't even know how the meaning got there in the first place. The idea for the glockenspiel just seemed beautiful, for its own sake."
"That's just as it should be," she replied. "No one, not even the greatest artist of all, can tell people their own truths for them. People find truth in art, but it's not always the same truth for different people. An artist can't do that on purpose. A great deal of bad art has been created in just that attempt. But just because you don't put it there doesn't mean it's not present in the art."
"So there's nothing I can do? They either disagree about the story or they ignore it?"
The professor smiled. "Argument isn't always a bad thing. Let me see what I can do for you. I don't want the glockenspiel to come down, either."
The next day, a brightly-colored full-page advertisement appeared in the newspaper. It announced the formation of a night class at the university, open to all the townspeople, on the subject of the Trojan War.
Only a few furtive students attended the first class. The professor opened with a lively lecture on the motivation of the wrath of Achilles. Soon, the students opened up and the class ended with a passionate discussion of the role of women in history.
The next class was slightly better attended, and the one after that even more so, as word spread, quietly but swiftly, of the joyful stimulation to be found in the discussion of complex ideas that could not be easily resolved.
There were no more letters to the paper on the subject of the glockenspiel. Discussion of its removal died down to nothing, and eventually even the binoculars were reinstalled. Arguments over the meaning of the story on the clock continued, but they were engaged with knowledge of the material and a respect for other points of view that had been unknown in the original argument.
Everyone lived happily ever after.

"The Story on the Clock," a fairy tale by the little-known American writer Robin Landry, is an ambitious story that attempts to tackle several large and important issues.
Where it is most effective, and where it functions as a true fairy tale, is where it illustrates the transformation of consciousness that a child must go through to achieve a mature appreciation of art.
The townspeople represent the growing child. At first, a child has a wide-eyed and na�ve wonder before beauty. It is often said that children are natural artists, and the clockmaker in the story is an eternal child, forever in this state of unthinking wonder.
Conflict comes with adolescence. The adolescence of the townspeople represents the confusion of a teenager, struggling to make sense of the world. The townspeople become mired in argument and confusion because they have not fully realized the depths of the implications inherent in art. Similarly, the adolescent often rebels against society because of perceived contradictions that are only dimly understood.
In a quest to resolve these contradictions, the world starts to seem pointless and the adolescent can fall into a state of existential angst. Uncertain of life's purpose, the adolescent sometimes turns to what seems to an outside observer like pointless, random destruction. The adolescent in this state rejects what was once a source of joy.
The intervention of a mature fully realized adult saves the adolescent from this unsatisfactory state. It is interesting that the catalyst for the change, the one who brings the unfulfilled adolescent and the adult mentor together, is the rejected component of self, the childlike artist. This aspect of the self, though devalued, is actually of crucial importance for continued growth.
The intervention of the professor, who takes on the role usually reserved for the fairy godmother in classical fairy tales, is necessary for the growth process. The professor performs an act of magic in returning art to the town. This caring and powerful adult figure represents the guide to maturity.
In the end, the old formula of "happily ever after" refers to the deep and integrated appreciation for the complexity of interpretation that comes with educated maturity.
This story could conceivably serve as a guide for a person mired in the stage of rebellious conflict or the stage of philosophical emptiness. Such a person might read this story and see that others, too, have felt this way, but that such feelings need not become a permanent part of an adult worldview.
However, the magical and overly simplistic way in which the professor corrects the problem might cause the reader to reject the story as a source of comfort. Such solutions may be effective in a children's fairy tale, but this tale is clearly aimed at an older audience. The audience knows quite well that a university extension course is not enough to bring about "happily ever after." This is a weakness in the story that the author may wish to address if she chooses to subject the story to further revisions.

The stories we've read, our class discussions, and the interpretive material I've managed to research all address the fairy tale as a form that explores the forces of our subconscious. The consensus seems to be that the fairy tale is uniquely suited to examine the psychic landscape of 'self,' and of our relationship to others with whom we have formative emotional ties. Thus the fairy tale takes us on a very particular journey, and it is one that primarily leads inward. This aspect of the fairy tale would seem to limit its use when we want, in our life of learning, to tell stories that journey outward.

Before Zen, mountains were mountains and trees were trees.
During Zen, mountains were thrones of the spirits and trees were the voices of wisdom.
After Zen, mountains were mountains and trees were trees.

In Women Who Run With the Wolves (Ballantine, 1992), the 'old saying' quoted above about Zen enlightenment is interpreted by Pinkola Estes as "Life is supposed to become mundane again."

I prefer an interpretation closer to what Jamake Highwater in his book, The Primal Mind (Meridian, 1981), describes as "the metaphor...of knowing things by turning into them." Highwater further expresses this concept using the words of an Indian holy person: "The apple is a very complicated thing...but for the apple tree it is easy."

I feel that in attempting to shape my 'life of learning' as a fairy tale, I experienced this inward-journey aspect of the form as a limitation.
My story of this woman on a boat out in the middle of a dangerous ocean is meant to be a story of a woman gaining physical courage. That's not to say there are no inner emotional states such as fear, for instance, that one must overcome to be brave. It's also not meant to deny that the need to be brave cannot be interpreted in psychological terms. I only want to point out that the test of her courage, the goal, is not primarily meant to attain psychological growth that will help her cope with emotional relationships. It is a trial meant to attain her capacity for action in the physical landscape.

Such tales are usually told in the form of a hero's quest. In such tales one has moved beyond the mundane. "...beyond the community circle, beyond everyday demands, assumptions, possibilities." (Familiar Mysteries: The Truth in Myth; Lowry, Oxford University Press, 1982. p. 78)

Therefore, it might have been more productive to conceive of and try to write my story as a re-telling of a tale of quest. At this point, I only have time to expand the beginning of the tale so as to open the tale with what Joseph Campbell terms 'the call to adventure.' This revision could go something like this:

Some long time ago, there was a woman who went to stay in a palm-thatched hut on a peaceful hillside far from her mother's home. Every day, the woman delighted in picture-postcard sunrises and sunsets that blazed over the little bay at the foot of the hill. And each afternoon she would walk along the beautiful sandy shore.

Until one day from out beyond the bay where the water was dark and deep--a place the woman had never been to--there appeared a wooden boat. It was old, its paint was cracked, and at the helm was an odd looking man in a straw hat. She quickly hid behind a boulder to watch him bring his vessel to shore.

It happened that the woman caught sight of a light shining from a plastic tub tucked under a plank near where the boatman sat. The woman stretched and strained to look out from behind the boulder without being seen, but the old man caught her spying on him and cried out. "A piece of your bread and a drink of tea for a glimpse of the silver light!" he demanded.

The woman had indeed brought lunch in her daypack, and she offered it to the boatman who tore into the bread and gulped the drink. While he satisfied his hunger and thirst the woman stepped onto the boat. Unable to contain her curiosity, she lifted the tattered sarong draped over the bucket, and saw it contained the wriggling life of all the silvery-skinned fish on earth. She was so startled she accidentally kicked over the bucket. And when she did, the silver light disappeared. Now there were only a few gray fish flopping about in the boat.

She apologized a hundred times, but the boatman would not be calmed. He told her the fish would never again allow a fisherman to catch them unless she went to the place where they lived and asked permission, however belatedly, to glimpse their radiance.

Well, the woman had never been out to the dark waters so far beyond her comfortable thatched hut, and she didn't want to go now. But what would become of the peaceful hillside village if the men could no longer catch fish to feed their families? What if the villagers found out she was the cause of their misery? She'd surely have her tourist visa revoked. Then she'd have to leave this tropical paradise. And so she agreed.

(And now I pick up with the previous draft, making what revisions I can as I go along...)

Soon, the old man's vessel seemed little more than a rowboat as it was tossed about in the vast Andaman Sea. At 14 feet, it was too narrow, too low in the water, and much, much to far from land. As she struggled to steady her fear the woman could only lament, "Why did I ever do this?"
The boatman ignored her, and busied himself with attaching hooks to a fishing line. First he threaded one, then another, and another. When there were a dozen or so hooks hanging from his pole-each with a smear of fishmeal-the boatman dropped the line into the ocean. Suddenly hundreds of small fish appeared alongside the boat.

But the woman was too terrified to be curious. When her gaze followed his hooks into the ocean, she saw only the deep-water nothingness. She cursed her fate with every ocean wave that lifted and dropped the little vessel, until finally she cried out, "How could you bring me onto an ocean with all these waves crashing around?"
As soon as she had said this, the ocean grew deathly still. Not a wave, not a ripple disturbed its dark surface. The woman no longer had the waves to fear, and this calmed her. Now with the sun high in the sky, the ocean placid, and the boatman stubbornly silent, the woman found it hard to stay awake. Soon, she was lulled into a sleep so deep as to be empty of dreams. Yet she had not been asleep but a moment when a cold gust of wind woke her. The sky, which had been so blue a moment ago, was filled with dark clouds spinning themselves into a fury. The ocean, which had been so calm, was again in roar. Both stirred up by the boatman's temper. The little boat was pitching so badly the woman again wanted to cry out in fear. But just as she opened her mouth a great wave rolled over the boat, knocking them both into the water.
The woman sank long and deep without uttering a single sound because she didn't want to open her mouth and swallow the entire ocean. She wanted to kick her legs and flail her arms. And her movements soon alerted an ocean's worth of silvery-skinned fish to her presence. When she saw them, she remembered what she had to do. She stilled her fear long enough to give the fish what they were due. And by their silvery glow, as they surrounded her, she managed to see the boatman's fishing line. She grabbed hold of it. And even as the sharp hooks bloodied her hands, she would not let go. She pulled herself, hand over hand, along that fishing line until she finally reached the boat. She saw the boatman in the distance, swimming like the old fish he was, into the horizon...and leaving her to go it alone.

Their once was little girl named Hope. Her fondest memories of her childhood were of her favorite teacher Mr. Lucky Charm. Mr. Lucky Charm wasn't your typical teacher in looks or technique. He was completely bald with a wide bright smile, and mischievous eyes. He was of Irish descent; he actually looked a bit like a leprechaun only taller, and of course he taught the children every Irish song he knew; he had them sing them over and over again. Some of Hopes favorites till this day are "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" and TOO-A-LOO-RA-LOO-RAL
Mr. Lucky Charm's classroom was a happy place. It was where a child was given the opportunity to be his/her self. He taught Hope to play an instrument. She played the flute, and enjoyed her art class too. In art class she remembered doing charcoal drawings and abstract designs of wonderful bright colors.
As Hope approached the last semester of here favorite school, where she was so happy, her parents began to talk about sending her to the local Penguin school, because they felt she would get a better education there and it would be safer. The Penguin School was a place where hope was erased from each child. At the Penguin School, the penguins instructors were scary, they all wore black robes, and didn't smile. They looked alike too and their faces were unexpressive. You weren't allowed to speak, or laugh either.
Hope was depressed at the thought of not being with her friends; she really wanted to go on with them to the Happiness Junior High. She longed to continue with the same education, she was getting. It felt so right for her.
She remembered skipping through the schoolyard and just feeling pure joy about her life and who she was. That was to change for her very soon. It wouldn't be long before her pure joy would turn to deep sadness.
She cried, she kicked, she screamed for her parents to see it her way, but to no avail. She had to put on my strait jacket and go the sanitarium. It felt so wrong. She was being imprisoned. She was being restricted, stifled, and smothered with conformities, and alikeness.
In this school she had to dress alike, talk alike, and sing alike. Her individuality was erased and it was so hurtful and disillusioning; she believed she would never find her way back to feeling all was right in her world.
Well the day came, and Hope hated it. She remembered it being gray and gloomy out. It seemed to be that way a lot. Penguin schooling was rigid, and hurtful. She didn't want to be alike. She wanted to be herself. She wanted to sing Irish songs and play volleyball out in the playground with her old friends, enjoy a well-rounded education that offered a banquet to choose from. She felt so afraid.
Every Thursday, she had to go to Penguin school extra early in order to go to worship. She had to be there by 8 AM. The Penguin teacher had yardsticks, long thick yardsticks. She was told that if we didn't sing loudly, she would have to stay after school and get the yardstick across their knuckles. Her classmates and she looked like rows of cut out dolls. They were different on the inside, but no one seemed to care about that.
The next five years she learned to accept that this was where she was, and where she needed to be in order to receive her Penguin Diploma. She did receive it, but Instead of gaining, she felt she had lost something very important along the way: her identity.
For many years after graduation, she wondered from job to job, never really feeling any of them were for her. Whatever the job was, she did well, and gave all she could, but always felt something was missing. Then one day, years later- call it fate, or call it an act of God, call it whatever you wish-Hope calls it a miracle. She decided to get in touch with the local college, to ask what classes they might be offering. When she explained her situation to them, they suggested she call another telephone number, for displaced penguin workers/ penguin homemakers. That sounded like her. She had felt displaced for a very long time, so this was a tiny, tiny ray of hope for Hope.
She was accepted into their Job Training Program, which offered enrollment into Job Training School. When she began her classes there, she never dreamed that all that hurt and disappointment that she had felt in the past would come to the surface. She thought since she had buried for so long it had disappeared. She didn't expect an emotional ride, but there was, like it or not and it was very overwhelming.
Hope didn't know it at the time but she had a fairy godmother at the Job Training School. Her godmother was a beautiful and kind woman that had experience with helping displaced penguins. Carol was her name. Carol was supportive and caring, and knew instantly what Hope needed. And she gave it. When she was frightened of her new journey, Godmother Carol would say, "Hope just take one step at the time, it is going to turn out fine." She listened to Carol, and little by little regained her identity. Finally she is not displaced.
Hope feels, her path to success may not be the traditional one, but it may be more enriching. Education enriches the soul, and touches the heart many times when you least
expect it. Especially when a beautiful fairy godmother reaches out her hand to help you.
She gave hope in what seemed to be hopeless situation. This is what we are doing now by reaching out our hand to each other; we are giving each other hope.

TOO-A-LOO-RA-LOO-RAL
That's An Irish Lullaby
Over in Killarney
Many years ago,
Me Mither sang a song to me
In tones so sweet and low.
Just a simple little ditty,
In her good ould Irish way,
And l'd give the world if she could sing
That song to me this day.
Chorus:
"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don't you cry!
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby."
Oft in dreams I wander
To that cot again,
I feel her arms a-huggin' me
As when she held me then.
And I hear her voice a -hummin'
To me as in days of yore,
When she used to rock me fast asleep
Outside the cabin door.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fairy Tale Analysis of "Hope"

The story "Hope" speaks out about the unconscious needs of a child yearning to stay in her fairy tale magical thinking world. The tone of the beginning writing is lighthearted, but takes a turn towards sadness and disappointment because she feels as though she has been wakened out of a wonderful peaceful sleep. This dramatic change in her life makes her feel insecure about the world she lives in.

The story brings out the conflict she is having with her parents about maintaining her own "identity." She will not give in without a fight. She explains in detail, her feelings about this excruciating painful experience. The words used in this explanation are strong. Straitjackets, sanitarium, imprisoned, restricted, stifled, and smothered these are all very troubling words.
The reader gets the feeling of not being able to breath, and not being able to be true to one's self. The use of these words brings out how the child within has become deadened inside, and she has had to give up "self", in order to survive and cope in a very difficult situation.
She is still longing and struggling for the fairy tale not to end and if it had to end it would end with, "happily ever after."
She wants to continue the dream of skipping through the schoolyard and singing TOO-A-LOO-RA-LOO-RAL with her classmates. The child is still resisting the call to "WAKE UP, GROW UP."

As we move through the story, we sense a rise to hope within and this is accomplished by using that very word "hope." Its tone changes and lifts the reader's spirits into a more optimistic one.
As she explains the help of a fairy godmother "Carol", you sense she is more of a surrogate mother figure for the child within. It is this "mother love" that was missing, and needed in her world to help her feel secure and to help her in her journey towards self-actualization.
As the story progresses the shape continues on the path of hope and achievement in education. Finally she is not displaced, in the end of this story, we sensed she has attained an inner sense of security and is now able to make her own decisions about her world.

In reflection of the happenings of the past days...maybe the reason so many of us feel so uneasy and helpless is because we feel we have no control of what is going to happen in our world. I feel that the bombing of the World Trade Center was a call to "WAKE UP." I feel, we as a country in many ways were in fairy tale land and now it is time for us to grow up. We also need hope, and we can give that to one another by reaching out and offering hope in finding solutions to make ours world a better place to live.

Once,

I saw myself in a tear.

Fascinated,

extending my neck,

the wet reflection

became clearer.

My rib-bone tremored.

I closed my ear.

I fell under myself

and clung to my feet,

waiting for the terror,

waiting

witing

wing

win

Violinno

To look upon the face of Violinno

is to look at once at life and death.

It's like peeling one eye to the sun

and dangling the other above a black hole.

Since the first hairless toe touched this earth,

many people have climbed up and tried to see,

covering their eyes with polymer cups,

slathering their skin with ultra-violet silicone gel.

Up-trudging their condensed binary motives they go,

up to the old gray rock.

The rock is so tall it looks like a mountain from below.

But it is like

work:

the closer you get to the finish,

the smaller the original job looks.

And most are surprised at how delicate the stone

appears, and

most

cannot believe that here,

on this humble throne,

Violinno rests like a sculpture unfinished,

not waiting,

yet

rapt in repose,

purity enclosed.

Violinno is like the stone with its natural pairs:

Hard yet

soft,

fast compared to the speed of a universe expanding,

slow compared to a planet dying.

When Violinno weeps

it is not like a woman

weeping over her lost keys,

lost kids, lost time;

mind turned to dust

running muddy eye rivers,

not like that whine.

Ask the ones who walked away from

the corpse pits,

the gas,

the shoveled shells where

lives once lived.

They know about the weeping

versus the whine.

Ask Viktor Frankl about those tears

cried when the heart is so strong

it can stand naked,

bruised side out.

Violinno knows the power in tears.

The urge to hide crying

was this always human?

The urge to see the bad man cry,

or else make him a demon,

make him die,

was this always there?

We could ask Violinno,

but, we must go to the beginning

when Violinno had not yet been seen.

It was before we found our brother planet,

before the great Unity of Nations,

when things were still created for sale,

and scarcely could be found

a creation for the sake of beauty alone.

So many lives were bound and wrapped,

tied up in packaging.

How could it be so?

We must look back even further,

to the time when the continents divided

and, of course, the people did too.

The division multiplied over time.

As division afflicted the colonies,

like an incurable epidemic, soon

countries divided, then-

can you believe?-

People were divided by ownership,

and by sex, and by melanin,

even brothers and sisters

floated apart.

Until

they were so divided

that each was separated from the rest

and called individuals.

So near danger were they

that they could not see.

The division accelerated.

Individuals began to divide!

Whole persons separated,

first into two, then into three.

And being broken in pieces they

could not well align with one another.

The next 100 generations suffered.

Soon they were born divided-yes!

The infants were born pieced

exactly twice that

of their parents.

Now it was even harder to see

Violinno was at the tips of their fingers.

Some felt the impulse,

some knew the hand could teach the brain,

but it was too late.

Strings

There was yet no agreement

no standard worldwide.

No "Yes, I too want to and will

do at least X, at a minimum."

There was only one universal language.

Everyone thought it was math, but again,

so close, they didn't see.

What contained math,

the math container

was bigger than math.

And it could describe the unwriteable.

There was an enchanted fountain

underneath a lake.

Stranger things have been discovered!

Like life where it shouldn't be.

So don't disbelieve either

that the fountain sang this very song:

"Raindrops go now with me.

Nature orchestrate my melody.

Clear, silent, clear.

One singing tree.

Answer the question.

Answer the plea.

Exhume Violinno

from the sea."

And One Singing Tree

immediately

came forth and replied:

"Here I am, ready for the master luthier

ready for my surgery.

Now who will sacrifice

their guts for my strings?

The strings will contain

infinity,

infinite notes, like Calculus,

half-tones, semi-tones,

perfect fifth.

Through constant divisions

the strings will give

Violinno the power to disarm

evil, transform with a gift."

Then once again came Violinno,

our gift we left unwrapped for so long.

The hybrid energy of

nature and humanity

was here.

Noise

Oh Violinno where are you now?

Soft innocent faces are gone.

A chorus of confident sound

is now dust on the ground.

The people,

the place

that fertilized Freedom

will return to its roots.

Do you comfort them now,

the dead buried and crushed,

along with our open call

to nobility?

The problem with power

is always the same.

The one who can wield,

can go insane.

Eccentricity

inherent in life

holds responsible the creators.

Is there anyone who hasn't once asked,

"Why God, why?"

But the question reveals

the true sentiment.

God must be crazy

to kill and torment.

We will find Violinno

where we all find ourselves

eventually,

turned back to finish our start,

at death

witnessing our birth.

We think we know the picture of birth

the story it tells

We think we know the distance

between heaven

and hell.

But it's a trick

because now

we are born invisible

even to time,

swaddled in chaos.

Aftermath Came Music

Only Violinno found the place

where Bamad Man was, all

laden with guilt from his

plot's fulfillment

that turned people into dust,

that made crappy movies

laugh at themselves madly,

like a murderer cackles to the cadaver

thrilling and scaring himself.

Violinno found the black hole in his universe,

the antimatter he had for a heart, and

saw the question in nature and

the question in art.

Violinno played carefully

with strange gentleness,

not fearing for her life,

but because a wound so deep, she knew,

holds an eruption of tears

that can drown a soul.

The Flies

Hanging lightly onto the planet,

tethered to the earth

I fly in circles.

I cannot let go.

Bound to clutch the handle of this space balloon

or drift out to infinity to

disappear.

No, I must face you

Tug-boat Earth.

If I want to ride your wake,

take your one-way-only

trip to

Where?

Looking down,

my eye is dirtied at the sight:

A filthy fly,

two filthy flies, more,

beat their thick wings dumbly,

stickying the atmosphere.

Sickening, I see it,

Questions, Intuitions, Revisions:
Telling and Re-Telling Stories About Ourselves in the World
A College Seminar Course at Bryn Mawr College

Forum - Students' Fairy Tales and Analyses

Violinno

Strings

Noise

Aftermath Came Music

The Flies

Questions, Intuitions, Revisions:Telling and Re-Telling Stories About Ourselves in the WorldA College Seminar Course at Bryn Mawr College

Forum - Students' Fairy Tales and Analyses

Violinno

Strings

Noise

Aftermath Came Music

The Flies

Questions, Intuitions, Revisions:
Telling and Re-Telling Stories About Ourselves in the World
A College Seminar Course at Bryn Mawr College