FAERY TALE

Native Water: A Collection of Poems - On sale now!

2012-02-15T11:24:00.000-05:00

US residents: Click to purchase
UK residents: Click to purchase

I'm so delighted to be sharing this collection of poetry for the first time with readers. In fact, if it weren't for my readers, I never would have published this collection in the first place. You were kind enough to ask for more from me - and while I'm working on another book length project, these things can take quite a while to come down the (ha-ha) pike. The time felt right to show you more of myself - for the truth is, as you'll read below, I have been writing poetry far longer than I have been writing prose. This collection contains poems about my father, my mother, my husband. It contains poems about Ireland and Glastonbury, and about dying, but most of all I hope these are poems about living, and finding our way. As Poet Laureate of South Carolina Marjory Wentworth said of the book, it is truly a collection of poems that tell a story of "...loving and letting go." Below, I've included a sneak peak at the book, which can be purchased on Amazon for only $2.99. That's less than the cost of a draft beer or a fancy candy bar. So if you would buy either of these things, you should definitely buy this book. As an added bonus, my book doesn't go to your hips after. But truly the added bonus is that, aside from the fact that you'll hopefully enjoy it, 5% of all the proceeds from sales of this book go to protect our environment. That means the more copies I sell, the more money I can donate.

If you are thinking of purchasing, it make a huge difference not just if you buy it, but when you buy it. More sales over a shorter time period will earn the collection better placement on Amazon, where more customers who aren't familiar with me and my writing will have a chance to see it. So in purchasing it today, you're also helping me to get more exposure as an author, and I truly appreciate that. As always, I am ever grateful for your reviews on Amazon, and am excited that via Kindle, readers can share their notes, favorite lines, and highlight their favorite sections.

A selection from the text:

Introduction

I have a sneaking suspicion that for some of us, it’s the things we treasure most that we try to keep locked away. Like creative Gollums of sorts, we keep them tucked deep in dresser drawers, in a box in the back of the closet, within the creased and age worn pages of a journal, so that nobody can do anything that could possibly harm our Precious. Friends and readers who know me as a memoirist might be surprised that I’m publishing a collection of poems, but I’ve written poetry all my life. This is not to say my poems are any good—but they are mine, they are honest, and they are precious to me.

I wrote my first poem at age seven or eight. It was entitled, “Elves of the Merry Land,” and it was god-awful. But after that, poems simply began to sprout from me as a way to puzzle through things. When deep emotions were stirred that I couldn’t quite comprehend, poetry asked—and if I was lucky, sometimes answered—a question. Writing poetry felt healing and natural, so I kept at it. By the time I was in fifth grade, I’d won first place in a countywide competition with a poem about a scarecrow. In high school, I wrote a poem about my parent’s divorce that won some prize or other, but I’ve repressed the entire incident, because do you have any idea how mortifying it is as a teenager to have to stand up in front of a room of people and read something… out loud? I’m pretty sure I threw up before, after, or maybe both. It’s a wonder I can speak today in public at all.

Later, at Cornell, I was shocked when the small portfolio I’d amassed earned me one of only 12 spots in a class taught by poet and editor of the Seneca Review, Deborah Tall; I should mention that some of these poems I wrote under her instruction, and they benefitted greatly from her keen eye.

I know a lot of writers who are forced to operate without the support of their loved ones, which is a painful prospect. I count myself lucky that my father and especially my mother were always both so incredibly supportive of my poetry, even as time passed with no accolades to mark its significance. My mother noticed the vulnerability involved in sharing a poem, and she has always respected that deeply. But my biggest supporter has always been my older sister, Kirsten. This woman, who has been my best friend as long as I can remember, was so doggedly convinced of the value of my work, even when she was only a teenager herself. She’d read the proffered sheet of paper thoughtfully, and looking at me, shake her head. “Do you have any idea what an incredible gift you have?”

My cheeks would flood with embarrassment because I knew she loved me too much to be unbiased. But it was her encouragement and her ardent, adamant belief in me, that allowed me to keep my poetry alive, however quietly. To keep writing it, keep sharing it, if only with her and select others, because it seemed to please her so much, and because it made her so wonderfully proud of me. And to make my sister proud was one of the best feelings ever.

Thus, it was only natural, that when I felt the time had come to put these works out into the world, I sent the collection to my sister and asked for her input regarding a title. (Kirsten is—sisterhood aside—a brilliant English teacher with a Masters in English Literature).

“Made of Water,” she wrote me. “Your mentions of water pepper many a poem; it’s what we’re all made of, and the one thing that unites us. Your poetry strikes a chord, something we share, even though it comes in so many different forms, just like water.”

What percentage of the body is made of water? I ask, in “Leaving Nantucket.” But too close to my own words, I hadn’t noticed that water was such a prevalent theme. Now, looking back, I could see its presence everywhere. In typical Pike-woman fashion (we’re a tribe of deciders, not lone wolves) I told my mother the title over the phone.

“I love it,” she affirmed. However, when I off-handedly mentioned the title again in an email, she wrote me back right away.

“When we talked on the phone I thought you said the title was ‘Native Water,’ which I liked a lot. ‘Made of Water’… not so much.”

This was a problem. I hadn’t realized how hard it was to discern the title when it was spoken aloud. (This is clearly what happens when you devise titles over email alone.) But instantaneously, Native Water felt like home. In my opinion, few things in life are accidental, and I loved how the title had evolved between the two women most central in my life.

But most of all, I loved it because water is what we’re all made of, the one thing that unites us, that flows in our bodies from generation to generation, even as our bodies decay and crumble into the earth. Sure, because water is a major theme in my poetry. But more so, because poetry, when done right, has the power to unite one person to another through shared experience. And because when we remember that inside, we are all Native Water, it helps us remember the responsibility we have to care for that water, whether it be found in each other, in our streams, rivers, lakes, waterfalls, and trees, or in the bodies of the thousands of species of animals we are charged to share this planet with.

I hope you’ll find something within these pages that touches you, that creates a beaded chain of connection from me and my experience to the water that lives inside of you.

Thank you for taking the time to read this work.

— Signe L. Pike

(From the Introduction, Native Water)

Native Water is available on all Kindle devices, as well as via Kindle apps for iPad, iPod, iPhone, PC, Mac, Blackberry and Android devices. It is not, I'm sorry to say, available in hardcopy, or on Nook. If you own a Nook, you can still purchase the book for your home computer, but it won't be available for viewing on your Nook device.

Happy Valentines Day

2012-02-14T10:19:00.003-05:00

It must have been something silly, like last night watching our recorded episode of The Simpsons that made me remember those little slips of paper. Bart was sitting on the floor amidst a pile of those small paper valentines, and Milhouse was saying, shoulders slumped, "The only one I got was from Lisa."

At Central Elementary in Fall Creek, where I grew up, you had to make a valentine for everyone in your class. Of course kids play favorites, so some get more effort than others. As Eric said last night, "I only made valentines for the girls I liked." Others got the pre-made printed slips. But I'll never forget seeing a girl named Juli*--who was always getting picked on because her clothes smelled, because she spoke too slowly, or because she would sit in circle, openly picking her nose-- smiling in sheer delight as she peeled off the tape that stuck two chalky miniature candy hearts on one of the slips of paper in her pile.

Some thoughtful mother, most likely, helped their kid take their obligatory valentines to the next level by including a little treat for us all, but for Juli, it was a moment of relief - happiness even - from what was probably a really painful childhood. Now that I'm older, of course I can recognize the sad truths. Juli was a little slower because she likely had a learning disability. Her clothes were soiled because she didn't have a parent at home who knew or cared enough to wash them. She picked her nose because there were no adults who payed enough attention to her to tell her it wasn't the best of manners. (Although, who among us doesn't remember childhood days, digging up there for gold? Come on. Every kid picks their nose.) Children can be so mean to each other. As a writer who set out to recapture the whimsical beliefs of her youth, I'd glamorized the child mind, where magic is a real, breathing thing, possible, where cartoons and fantastical creatures came to life behind our closed eyes. I failed to remember the people like Juli, and how disturbing it was to watch the emotional abuse she suffered from other kids on a daily basis.

Nowadays, I believe that increased awareness and especially the anti-bullying campaign, has shed light on this. I do remember that our teachers were always sweet to Juli, and of course forbade rudeness, in so much as they could ward it off while they were around. But all of this got me thinking about Valentines Day, and how these days, as grownups, we're so focused on romantic love that we sometimes forget that now that we're all grownup, we have the ability to expand the definition. To include the people who don't get included. Otherwise, what have we learned from being young?
So today, why not keep an eye out for someone who could use a little love?

For my part, we're spending the evening with a group of friends, and I'm going to get my cookies and cupcakes ready early, so I can be sure to have some packed up for our mail carrier and the UPS crew that visit us several times a day. Because they might have sweethearts at home, and sure, you can say it's an overblown, commercialized holiday. But because I hope that grown up Signe will endeavor to never to miss an opportunity to make a difference, no matter how small, in someone else's (Valentines) day.

Happy Valentines to you, wishing you some extra love and affection from all who surround you.
- Signe

(* not her real name.)

The Power of Root Vegetables

2012-01-09T17:53:00.005-05:00

Gorgeous striped beets get roasted and served

My Sweet Potato Carrot Squash Soup, (pre-blender)

In winter everything takes the opportunity to rest and recuperate. Gone are the spring and summer veggies bursting with juice and vitality, and in roll the many vegetables that grow underground. Carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, turnips, radish, beets. These vegetables possess a different energy altogether - they're soothing, grounding, incredibly nourishing, and I think they also help us to feel more connected to the quieter and more introspective rhythm of the season. Of course they're amazing for our bodies too, being chock full of beta-carotene, complex carbs, potassium, fiber and antioxidants.

Perhaps Melissa Breyer, Senior Editor at Healthy Living, said it best: "I’m deeply drawn to vegetables grown underground. I find them mysterious, otherworldly. Like geodes and gemstones, they come from a world that I know little of. They drink in the nutrients from dark soil and transform them into perfectly imperfect knobs and tubes of exuberant color and uncommon nutrition. They are the heart and soul of plants."

Winter membership in our Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) program means root vegetables, and lots of them. Turnips and beets get scrubbed, quartered, and roasted until tender in a tablespoon or two of olive oil, salt and pepper at 375 degrees. But one of the challenges I like most about being a CSA member is definitely creating new and exciting dishes with everything plus the kitchen sink.

Recently I created a catch-all soup that's simple, wholesome, and oh-so-nourishing. Some of you requested the recipe. (Oh, goodness, now I have to write a recipe!) I make this soup without really measuring or timing, so I've done my best below.

Notes: We typically get a small butternut squash and other assorted gourd-looking things too, which I roast and then toss in, hence the name of the soup. Squash, of course, is not a root vegetable, but it sure does taste great with them. (If you like a milder flavor, sub. shallots for the onion.) If you're using almond or soy milk, be sure to use a brand that you know doesn't curdle at high temps. (I use Silk brand Almond Milk.)

Signe's Sweet Potato, Rainbow Carrot, and Assorted Squash Soup

3-4 sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced into chunks

1 bunch of rainbow (or regular) carrots, peeled and chopped

1 onion, diced

1 butternut or acorn squash

1-2 cubes Vegetable or free-range Chicken bouillon

1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

salt and pepper to taste

2-3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1/4 - 1/2 cup almond milk (or 2% cows milk)

Preparation for the squash: Lightly oil a baking sheet and roast at 375 degrees 30-45 minutes or until tender. Set aside.

Fill a kettle with water and set to boil. In a soup pot saute the onion and carrots in 2-3 tablespoons of olive oil about 4-5 minutes on medium-high heat, until the onions turn transparent and the carrots begin to soften. Toss in the chunks of sweet potato and a little more oil if needed. Cook on medium-high heat for another 3-4 minutes, being careful not to let anything stick to the bottom. When the water comes to a boil, pour it into your soup pot, tossing in your desired bouillon cubes. (Chicken bouillon gives it a deeper, richer flavor that I prefer, but I know many of you are Vegs.) Bring to a boil.

Let the pot cook at a medium/low boil, stirring occasionally, while you prepare the (now-cool)squash.

The squash - Scrape out the flesh with a spoon or fork. Discard the leathery skin and toss the meat into the pot. Stir in the nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla extract. Turn the soup down and simmer for 30 minutes, checking to ensure the sweet potatoes are tender before turning off the heat.

Using a ladle, spoon the soup into a blender in batches to puree. (Please place a cloth towel over the lid and press down while you blend - this will protect you from getting any burns from the hot soup should the lid pop off due to steam, etc.) Move the pureed soup to a temporary pot once blended. Continue until all the soup has been pureed.

At this point, I usually pour only the amount I know we'll eat right away eat back into the original soup pot on the stove. The rest I let cool and then freeze for a rainy day. (All you'll need to do is dump it into a pot to reheat and stir milk in once hot - it's a handy trick if you have dinner guests - they don't need to know you didn't slave all day over their first course!

Turn the heat on med-low. Stir in your almond or other milk - start with a 1/4 cup and go from there, until the soup gets a creamy hue to it. Season with salt and fresh ground pepper as needed and serve.

Bon Appetit!

Winter Solstice and The Art of Remembering

2011-12-21T15:22:00.003-05:00

Winter waterfall in Six Mile Creek

Hammond Hill in winter

Part I

Alan Pike, always at home in his headlamp

This Christmas, I’m more keenly aware than ever that I’m not alone in missing someone who is gone. Every year the holidays remind us of those who are no longer here to share them with – and for me, the winter months and Christmas are always hardest. Growing up in New York State, winter was a favorite season. I’d sit and watch the snowflakes fall for what seemed like hours, tucked under a blanket with a sleeping dog for company. At my father’s house on Christmas day we would venture out for a snowy hike in the woods or if the conditions were right, a cross-country ski – sometimes in the dark of night, if the moon was bright enough, me, my father, my sister, and one fleece-encased dog, her breath coming in puffs as we glided along the powder white trail. The skies were always grey, and we’d walk the woods bundled in down jackets, hats and gloves, the skin of our faces blushed and smooth in the cold. Later in the steamy kitchen, my father would whip up filet mignon, or some creamy rich concoction with haddock and crab, and always for dessert a chocolate raspberry torte and decaf coffee. After dinner we’d sit in my father’s living room opening gifts, trying to stifle our teenage annoyance when he’d reach over to stick a bow on our foreheads because hey, it’s the holidays. We’d drape ourselves in discarded ribbons; he’d open his obligatory chamois shirt from LL Bean and act as though it were spun with threaded gold.

My father in his kitchen

Now that I’m more mindful of the celestial shifting of our planet and the times of the year that mark turning seasons, the Winter solstice has become an important addition to my holiday season. The changes of the earth mark a time for remembering, and it is in this space that I can honor the memory of my father and others I’ve lost over the years. The shortest day, the longest night, it feels to me like a time of spirits. I’ll leave some wine and plates of honey and cheese in a few special places around the yard and burn some incense for my father as darkness falls. In that way I suppose I do not celebrate so much as I turn inward. These days I am not urging on the coming of spring. I relish the quiet dark days and the sleepy, introspective energy they possess. With everyone on vacation, for a few precious days email nearly ceases altogether, and I relish the break from obligation. I pickup a new and challenging historical or mythological text to study, I try to be more diligent about the things that are delightful, but that take time - evening baths in candlelight, morning meditation, and yoga.

When writing about the Winter Solstice, author and scholar Joseph Campbell pointed out that the weather during the wintry months even long ago necessitated an indoor fire, which made the ceremony more intimate by nature, as opposed to it’s seasonal “yang” celebration of Midsummer, where outdoor bonfires that drew the entire community were the norm. So perhaps, though here in Charleston it is rainy and over 70 degrees, I’ll light a fire tonight. To remember those wintry nights tucked into the warmth of my father’s living room while he was with us, and to create the time to sit and be with him, wherever he is, still.

Me and my father

A winter walk in the woods

Alan Pike, The Man, The Myth

A Faery Enchanted Holiday Giveaway!

2011-12-07T09:55:00.001-05:00

Happy Holidays:

As the holiday season approaches, I wanted to do a giveaway - I know many of you have given Faery Tale as a gift, so I thought this might be a nice way for me to say Thank You!

Give Faery Tale as a gift for the holidays and I'll send you a beautiful signed and hand-crafted bookplate. (I found 3 different and gorgeous handmade plate styles on Etsy from Tricia at The Oddest Owl that I think you'll love.)

Simply email me with your address and any special inscription, and I'll get it shipped out to you before December 22nd.

And, as a special thank you from me to you: Ordering more than 1 copy? Because 3 is such a magical number: Any reader who orders 3 copies or more will receive a special holiday gift from yours truly.

Instructions:

Free Bookplate: Send an email to signe@signepike.com, including the address you'd like me to send to, the name of the person receiving the book, and any short inscription (keep in mind that bookplates don't allow much room to write). See below for available styles. Let me know if you have a preference on which plate you'd like and I'll do my best.

Free Gift: Email proof of purchase for 3 copies to: signe@signepike.com. Be sure to include your address. Your special gift will be of my choosing - some examples are jewelry, baked goods (made by me, of course), candles, soaps and more. You can order online from Amazon.com and email me the receipt, or even better, if you want to support your local indie store, you can simply send me a photograph of your receipt via email.

Restrictions: Apologies, but I can't send gifts to P.O. Boxes - you'll need to provide a street address. (Bookplates are no problem.) And it breaks my heart, but until I have a house in Scotland (dream on, Signe!) this offer is only available in the United States.

Here's to what I hope for all of you will be the happiest and brightest holiday season.

Our Place in Nature

2011-11-14T11:26:00.000-05:00

The starlings are back.

Since my husband and I left the bustle of New York City to make a home among the twisting creeks and sandy beaches of Charleston, S.C., the birds and butterflies mark the seasons. Of course, year-round this is a place of water birds. Near the ocean, sandpipers skitter light-footed across the waterline. Back in the creeks, herons sit stock-still on dock pilings, their keen eyes focused beneath the silty surface of the creek. Snowy white egrets stretch themselves in flight against some of the bluest skies I’ve ever seen.

But I know that it’s autumn with Thanksgiving around the corner when I step into the back yard to hear the chorus of chirps, squawks, and cackles of the starlings. They flock by the dozens in the branches of our 80-year-old red pine, their bodies rendered invisible by the pinecones were it not for the interminable calamity they cause. They bully the cardinals and even the blue jays. They shovel seed from the feeders and can empty them in minutes. But I don’t begrudge their presence: after all, it’s not their fault. Starlings are genetic refugees.

In 1890-1891, a small group of European starlings were released in New York City by the American Acclimatization Society. Their romantic but idiotic ambition? To introduce all the birds mentioned in the works of Shakespeare to Central Park. Today the population of European starlings in the U.S. is approximately 200,000,000. It’d be an understatement to call starlings a nuisance. In my back yard, we get off easy. Across the US each year flocks of starlings are responsible for nearly $800 million dollars of crop damage.

Fiercely aggressive, they root out and destroy the nests of other birds. They’re opportunistic feeders. Sadly, people are encouraged to annihilate eggs, nests, adults and young starlings alike. We have created a monster. Starlings are only one example of how human beings have interfered with the natural course of nature only to cause disastrous and likely irreversible results. Like everything in nature, there is always something to admire in the starlings – the way their glossy feathers refract in the light like so many rainbows, the liveliness of their conversation, the way their jaw has genetically evolved to adapt here. They’re also quite clever and can even imitate human speech.

There are now 2,789 different plants, fish, mammals, insects, reptiles and birds wreaking havoc in the natural environment of the U.S. thanks to human meddling. In America alone, we’ve introduced African bees, snakehead fish, Asian carp, the Red Imported Fire Ant, zebra mussels…the list goes on. My point isn’t to bemoan our state of affairs – organizations like Invasive.org and the National Invasive Species Council are doing their best to mitigate the issues, despite the fact that they’re fighting a largely uphill battle. The time has come when we need to adopt a responsible position in the balance of the world’s ecosystem and stop screwing around with it. It’s a mindset, an intention, and a respect for the natural world that needs to be put into action now, not tomorrow. Because when we mess with nature’s balance, disastrous things happen. My hope is that we can learn from the mistakes of the past and carry that knowledge forward. We need more education, adaptation of these issues in school curriculums at all age levels, more outreach. Stricter regulations. But most of all, we need active thinkers and community members who take the time to say to our corporations and government bodies, “This is not okay.”

Avaaz.org, Sierra Club and Nature Conservancy are great places to start. Donate your time, donate your money if you can, and most importantly, donate your attention to helping us recreate the way people treat the planet. Sure, this planet is resilient. It lived for millennia before we came, and with hope it will live millennia after. It’s up to us to decide whether or not we’ll be on it. Because when you consider things this way, human beings—with no natural predators, our technology, our adaptability and our incredible intellect—are the most invasive species of all.

Connecting with the Faerie Realm

2011-11-03T12:53:00.000-04:00

Hello, Everyone!

Recently, a reader asked me for tips on how to begin her own relationship with the faeries. There are dozens of things you can do, and the most important thing of all is to follow your own intuition. I've seen tiny and beautiful hand-beaded bags made as gifts and left out, I've seen incredible little faery doors crafted from all natural and found things left in the woods. One woman baked fairy bread with her two young kids and left some outside for the back garden beings. The creativity never ceases, and the possibilities are endless. But here are five basics that I've incorporated into my life - I hope they're helpful! If you've got things you do and would like to share, please, feel free. The more suggestions the better. Also, Faery Tale really can be used as a teaching tool. Do what I did! It's all there in the pages of the book.

1. Tidy your home and outdoor spaces.

When I first read that faeries appreciate clean spaces, I couldn’t exactly relate to the concept. I’ve never believed that faeries were tiny winged creatures with tempers like Tinkerbell or anthropomorphic characteristics like fastidiousness or “Type-A” personalities, though I do joke about this in my book. These are human conventions born out of our modern-day neurosis and a pre-occupation with the material facets of existence. Faeries are spirits. As such, preparing a space by cleaning it is showing a mark of respect and communicating your intention to connect. The added benefit? You get to enjoy your tidy home and admire your finely kept garden. Cleaning away dust and clutter also keeps the energy of places feeling fresh, which is something you can imagine any spirit (or human for that matter) would appreciate.

The magical 3 year-old Jasmine Cook left this feather for the sunroom faery on her recent visit.

2. Create a Special Location.

The Quartz tree I found at Penguin gets a special place on my desk in Charleston.

This was a christmas ornament I received as a gift - it found its way into my kitchen,
where I leave out little gifts for the "Kitchen" Spirit. Haven't burned anything since!

Whether it is a corner of your desk at work, your kitchen windowsill, a bookshelf, or any other place that feels right to you. I had a small collection of found things that reminded me of faeries in my office at Penguin. It all began with a funky and rather horrible looking quartz crystal tree that showed up in the “Don’t Want” Pile at the office. Oddly, it was the day my book proposal for Faery Tale was going to auction, and it was a pretty unusual thing to see- typically the pile was reserved for books only. Something told me to take it – the proposal sold within five days, and it’s been my lucky charm ever since. No doubt it was a gift from the faeries!

3. Leave Offerings

My Samhain gifts: Rose petals, apples, cheddar, & chocolate

Now that you’ve got a location that’s reserved for the Fae, you can have fun with it. I like to leave out really nice cheeses, wine, rose petals. Inside, I’ll burn incense or leave small servings of honey by the faerie homes or the crystal tree when I’m looking for a little extra help or just want to say thank you. If you live in an area with raccoons, bears, etc., definitely don’t leave food out. You can leave rocks, seashells, bits of pretty yarn or fabric, etc. It’s the giving that matters, not what is given. For that reason, I’ve stopped leaving chocolate out except for very small amounts on special occasions – it can be poisonous to certain animals, and isn’t really a balanced part of the squirrel diet!

4. Meditate

There are some good meditations out there that help you ground and connect to the natural world. When we’re connected, grounded, and open; that’s when the faerie world can interact with us. There are also a few faerie meditations out there – I imagine you can find them on ITunes. (I’m working on a series of meditations with the faerie world that I want to be completely original so I haven’t explored what’s out there, but if you look, you’re certain to connect with the one that is right for you!) You can also just sit outside, get quiet, breathe, and try to empty your mind. Just listen to the world around you. Magical things can happen!

5. Faerie Cards

Faerie Cards a great way to connect with the upper world Fae – the Sidhe -- and their wisdom. These are beings of incredible light, love, and ancient knowledge. When you use the cards you’re inviting them to take an active helping role in your life. I am a devotee of Brian and Wendy Froud’s Heart of Faerie Oracle. It comes with a gorgeous instructional book, and one of my favorite things to do is sit with a good girlfriend in the sunroom with some red wine and consult the faerie cards. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but the cards are not a toy. They’re to be used with respect and reverence. For this reason, if I do a reading for someone, I make sure that they have a pen and paper – they are responsible for taking notes. Faerie wisdom is not a one-off or a throwaway thing. It’s a gift, and those who are new to it seem to understand that when they are given a role to play in their collection of the knowledge.

Samhain: The Origins of Halloween

2011-10-31T15:17:00.000-04:00

31^st of October, 750 BC

Evening chases the light from the hills. Beneath the darkness, winter begins to creep, casting a sleep that will sink deeply into the land. It is the night when the veil between the worlds is thinnest. Away from the huts, sticks and branches lean together in what will become a towering blaze. The bonfire signifies light to guide the way as the people enter the dark half of the year, and it protects them from the spirits that come this night to pay a visit to their world. Tonight the ancestors walk once more among them, protecting those who follow in their footsteps. Empty places are left for them to join the living at the feast table. As the living finish the feast, even the wind though the forest seems to hush as the families gather, solemn in the cold. The only sounds are the leaves that crunch underfoot as hooded figures in dark robes step forward, torches in hand. The Druids have come to light the fire. In a moment, the celebration will begin: it is the eve of the New Year for the Ancient Celts.

We've been carving pumpkins since 1837, but carving lanterns from vegetables is a far older tradition in the UK & Ireland, where they stood by the door to ward off spirits.

Halloween.

You might have heard this time of year also called Samhain, which conjures the image of witches on broomsticks. But Samhain, pronounced Sow-an, is actually an ancient Celtic holiday, celebrated over a two days. For centuries the empire of the Celts stretched from Britain to Turkey and from Spain, Germany and France to Czechoslovakia. Samhain was a time of year to honor the dead and request the spiritual protection of ancestors, valiant warriors and wise chieftains alike. It was believed that during these few days of “between” time (when the light months of summer and fall gave way to the darker months of winter), the spirits could visit our world. Masks and costumes were donned to help the living evade recognition from marauding, malevolent beings of the dead.

To some, this may sound like the stuff of fairy tales. The bonfire and the empty place at the table may seem like vestiges of a long-forgotten age. After all, it was around 1,300 years ago that Pope Gregory III declared October 31^st “All Hallows Eve” and November 1^st “All Saints Day”—a day to remember saints and martyrs—re-appropriating many of the Celtic pagan practices of Samhain in an effort to gain popular footing for the Catholic Church among a still largely pagan community. But what if I were to tell you that on Halloween night around the world, there is quite literally magic afoot?

A woman communes with the stones at Boscawen-Un stone circle, Summer Solstice, Cornwall, England

A statue of Celtic sea god Manannan, Isle of Man

Here in America and around the world, despite the passage of time, or perhaps because of it, Samhain and its traditions are alive and well. In fact, on this very night, and perhaps at this very moment, somewhere in the quiet forests near Glastonbury, England, a circle of people in hooded robes are touching a torch to a fire. Somewhere in Seattle, Washington there is a mother telling her child of the people who came before. And somewhere in the hills of Scotland there are figures gathered in a Neolithic stone circle to remember their ancestors. In apartments and parks of our largest cities, in the quiet depths of our forests, in the suburbs of our modern-day world, there are those to whom this holiday marks a magical time of the year. A time when unseen spirits really do walk our world.

For these people, enchantment isn’t fiction, it’s a livable reality.

But who are these people, and why do they believe in such things long forgotten?

Moreover, what are we losing when we discount these ancient practices? When we cast aside our folklore? What might we be missing when we relegate the belief of hidden worlds and sacred ceremonies, the honoring of the seasons and the marking of the cycles of the earth to a world of make believe?

This is what I write about. This is what I love to explore. Welcome to the Faery Tale.

Signe Pike is a former book editor and the author of Faery Tale: One Woman’s Search for Enchantment in a Modern World. Look for the paperback, on-sale now. You can visit her website at www.signepike.com to find out more.

9 Things That Help Me Get By

2011-09-12T17:56:00.195-04:00

Carolina Jessamine on the patio
brings me down to earth

Some months back I received an email from a woman about my age, living in Los Angeles. It was a thoughtful, heart-warmingly personal and truly compelling letter about her life in LA and how she often struggled to feel a sense of fulfillment in her daily life. "How do you stay connected?" She asked. How do we maintain a sense of connectedness, belonging, contentment, happiness and faith in an unseen world, whatever we believe that world to be?

I responded with the only truth I could, of course, and that email has been much on my mind since losing my close friend Matt to suicide in August.

Because the truth is, it's hard to stay connected. Very hard. Trying to stay plugged in is no easier than dieting, incorporating a new fitness regimen, going off coffee or making any other lifestyle change. There are good days and bad days for all of us, no matter what we're trying to do. I can't say... perhaps being spiritually aware comes naturally to some people, but for me, staying grounded and trying to maintain a sense of peace and contentment in my daily life is something that takes work. There are things that happen that can shake you to your core, make you question your beliefs. There are often other things that we'd like to be doing than, say, meditating, like checking our email, rushing off to work, or going grocery shopping.

So here are a few of the things, nine things, to be exact, in no particular order, that I turn to when I'm feeling stuck, sad, and disconnected. I've found these small things can have a transformative effect on my day; and moreover, they help keep me much more open and aware of the world around me.

1. I Do Something that Scares Me. Fear can mean a lot of things to different people. And fear has a lot of different masks it can wear, but when we tug at the source of our fears, we often find their roots are the source of a lot of our discontentments in life. Whether it be going solo to a social event where I might not know a single soul, or signing up for a sky diving lesson, when I face a fear, I always grow. I learn to trust in myself as well as in the world around me in new and profound ways that carry with me into tomorrow.

Lucy, Co-Nature Investigator
and walking buddy

2. I Treat Myself. A lovely bottle of wine, a special box of organic tea, a new candle, a bath, a gym workout, you name it. Any of these small things, when framed as an indulgence, just for me, make me feel like I'm taking care of myself. And when I take care of myself, I'm a much better friend, wife, sister, daughter, and canine/feline mom.

3. I Start a New Hobby. Paint, write, learn the guitar, take up meditation, yoga – the possibilities are endless. But I've found that expressing my interest in something allows new creativity to flow, and the more creative we all get, the more interesting, innovative, and dynamic our collective reality becomes.

My ankle tattoo was

a (painful) meaningful offering

of gratitude for my

experiences in Faery Tale

4. I Make an Offering. I'll sprinkle rose petals around my yard to give thanks to nature and the world that sustains me, I'll light some incense, or do something thoughtful for a friend. Recently, I signed up for a 70-mile Spin Marathon (co-file under Do Something that Scares Me) for charity. Giving and saying thank you helps me expand my heart and teaches me how to be a better person.

5. I Make Eye Contact with Those Around Me…And smile. It doesn't just transform the energy of my day; hopefully it transforms the energy of someone else's too.

6. I Take a Walk. Just to notice things: me breathing, the sunset, the dog's nails clipping along on the pavement. Artist Brian Froud believes there is spirit in everything. When I walk I strive to see it.

7. I Cook Something. But I try to do it mindfully, with love. I put some music on, prepare my favorite beverage, and try to enjoy myself. I believe that being in a good space energetically when I'm preparing food literally “charges” the food with that positivity. It's a gorgeous alchemy.

Heart shaped Cranberry Scones for Eric
upon my return from England this summer

8. I Buy a Plant, Visit my Herb Garden, or Feed the Birds. Caring and interacting with the natural world in my daily environment is one way I've found I can really stay connected to the earth and my relationship to it. Observing and caring for the other creatures that inhabit it is merely the icing on the cake.

9. I Take a Journey. I'm a bit of a travel hound, and sometimes when I'm stuck I literally travel someplace else. But travel has taught me that enchantment and reconnection can be found everywhere when I know how to look for it. New restaurants, funky art galleries, an advertisement for a drum circle, poetry reading, if something catches my eye, I dare myself to do it. Enchantment and reconnection exists in our own backyards. It's learning how to see it that's the true journey.

Sometimes the
beach is just the journey I need

I'd love to hear what you do to stay connected - it's always good to add a few new tools in the ol' spiritual arsenal.

For Matt

2011-08-31T13:04:00.003-04:00

Some of you may know that Eric and I lost our best friend to suicide on August 15th.

For Matt

Days later

and you’re still not here.

We catch ourselves waiting, you know.

The ring of a phone, the ping of an in-box.

Who knew that the center of a human heart could cramp like this

Or that the empty would find us

on the way to the grocery store, driving under these timeworn oaks

in a pair of sunglasses sitting on the counter

in a shopping list left near the edge of the sink.

Remember when we

went paddle boarding ate fried snickers at the state fair ducked out for Chinese walked the dogs sat in the sand the three of us, watching the full moon bathe itself in the Carolina ocean?

Now dead-lines come and fall away

nowadays words do not stir me,

we avoid each other in the darkness, in the deadness

in the blank spaces where language won’t come

or withers away even though

nothing stops

when you pull of at an exit

the cars pass, the hours tick by

people just

ache or smile or fall in love

with out you.

You would have seen Eric and I

heads together, leaning like young trees

in the storm of your leaving

and the shaking of our heads no no no. There are phone calls to be made and we need to make them. This is good because later, when it sinks in, there is nothing but silence and weight.

Eventually I pour some wine

there is anger and I swallow it

because after all, what is left? There is nothing to do but sit in the sunroom

drugged with sadness

no movements, or doing, til I remember

we were supposed to have dinner

tonight.

In the kitchen I pull out the collards,

cut the spines even as they blur

because there is something soothing in the sound of

cutting board meets knife.

You would’ve perched on that stool by the island

Your running shoes looking weary, your calves lean and strong

grey eyes looking flat

or full

and I would have looked up and told you

you can’t find what’s missing

if you don’t stick

around.

We'll miss you forever, Matt. I can't believe you're gone.

Sunroom Teaching from Willoughby the Cat

2011-07-20T11:50:00.000-04:00

Willoughby the Cat

It occurs to me that I often wax rather poetic.

I am sitting in the sunroom with tea, utterly contented, when Willoughby the cat gives me a little "Meert?" of a greeting and climbs onto the cushy top of my chair above my head. She settles in and I feel a rush of love for this hairy little black creature.
“Oh…” I coo. “You just want to be with Mommy, huh?”

I turn my head into her, marveling at how life is beautiful, and what makes it so beautiful are the simple things. Like sitting here, writing, and her black fur, that almost seems to shine with little rainbows of light in the bright morning sun. I close my eyes and nuzzle her soft fur with my face.

And then she turns her rear end, so that her (uh, for lack of a classier term) anus is resting uncomfortably close to my cheek.

And begins flicking me in the face with her tail.

You cannot convince me she doesn’t know how annoying that is.
Or how disgusting it is to be so close to her stinky bum hole.

My nose wrinkles in revolt, but I can't help but chuckle. Mission accomplished, cat.

We humans tend to take ourselves so seriously. Even when we're trying to expand, and grow and get better at loving who and where we are, we're so damn serious about it all the time.

Her tail flick? A reality check.
Her stinky bum? Comedic relief.

I'm constantly struck by how many of my readers tend to be animal lovers - cats and dogs both, but interestingly, many of you are cat people. Regardless of species, I never cease to be amazed how much guidance animals give us, how incredibly grounding their presence can be in our daily lives.
If we only pay attention.

So this message comes from Willoughby, I suppose.
It's good to be earnest.
But it's good to laugh, too.

Might seem like a small thing. But I think we can all recognize there will be days when such teachings will really come in handy.

Save our buzzing, pollenating friends!

2011-04-25T18:38:00.000-04:00

I was writing in my journal in the sunroom earlier, I was distracted by a bumble buzzing against the glass. It sounded almost like a tap-tap-tapping. One would go away, another would come, and it went on for about an hour.

Funny thing was, I was writing a journal entry about being aware of signs and signals from the world around us.

I've been highly concerned about toxic pesticides for sometime now, but for me, today was the day to act.

I hope you'll check out this message from Avaaz.org, an organization that seeks to bring people-power to politics and policy making in a new way, and sign their petition to the US Environmental Protection Agency. There are some great articles linked below if you want to read and find out more from great sources like The Guardian in the UK and Business Insider.

With love, Signe

Dear friends across the U.S.,

Silently, billions of bees are dying off all over the country and our entire food chain is in danger. Bees don't just make honey, they are a giant, humble workforce, pollinating 90% of the crops we grow.

Multiple scientific studies blame one group of toxic pesticides for their rapid demise, and some bee populations are recovering in countries where these products have been banned. But powerful chemical companies are lobbying the Environment Protection Agency hard to keep selling these poisons. It’s up to us to defend the bees and our food supply by calling for a US ban now.

We have no time to lose -- a recent study shows 96% of our four main bee species have been wiped out. Let’s build a buzz across the nation calling on the EPA to outlaw these killer chemicals and save our bees and our food. Sign the emergency petition now and send it on to everyone and we’ll deliver it to the top decision makers:

http://www.avaaz.org/en/save_the_bees_usa/97.php?cl_tta_sign=d39e96a2960581aa14ba29d941c995b1

Bees are vital to life on earth -- every year pollinating plants and crops with an estimated $40bn value, over one third of the food supply in many countries. Without immediate action to save bees many of our favourite fruits, vegetables, and nuts could vanish from our shelves. .

Recent years have seen a steep and disturbing global decline in bee populations and scientists have been scrambling for answers. Some studies claim the decline may be due to a combination of factors including disease, habitat loss and toxic chemicals. But increasingly, independent research has produced strong evidence blaming neonicotinoid pesticides. France, Italy, Slovenia and even Germany, where the main manufacturer Bayer is based, have banned one of these bee killers. But, Bayer continues to export its poison across the world, and the US is one of its biggest markets.

This lethal issue is now coming to a boil as major new studies have confirmed the shocking scale of this problem. It is urgent that we get the government to act, but it won’t be easy. A leaked document shows that the EPA already knew about the pesticide’s dangers, and ignored them. The document says Bayer’s "highly toxic" product is a "major risk concern to non target insects [honey bees]".

We need to make our voices heard to counter Bayer’s very strong influence on US policy makers and scientists -- they fund the studies and sit on policy bodies. The real experts -- the beekeepers and farmers -- want these deadly pesticides prohibited until and unless we have solid, independent studies that show they are safe. Let's support them now. Sign the petition below, then forward this email:

http://www.avaaz.org/en/save_the_bees_usa/97.php?cl_tta_sign=d39e96a2960581aa14ba29d941c995b1

We can no longer leave our delicate food chain in the hands of research run by the chemical companies and the regulators that are in their pockets. Banning this pesticide will move us closer to a world safe for ourselves and the other species we care about and depend on.

With hope,

Alex, Alice, Iain, David and all at Avaaz

MORE INFORMATION

Bee decline could be down to chemical cocktail interfering with brains
http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/jun/22/chemicals-bees-decline-major-study?INTCMP=SRCH

Bee briefing
http://www.soilassociation.org/LinkClick.aspx?fileticket=RXLEm9WXrHk%3D&tabid=439

$15 Billion Bee Murder Mystery Deepens
http://www.businessinsider.com/colony-collapse-disorder-still-unsolved-lead-researcher-had-connections-to-bayer-2010-10

“Nicotine Bees" Population Restored With Neonicotinoids Ban
http://www.treehugger.com/files/2010/05/nicotine-bees-population-restored-with-neonicotinoids-ban.php

EPA memo reveals concern that pesticide causes bee deaths
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/green/detail?entry_id=79910

Beekeepers want government to pull pesticide
http://www.palmbeachpost.com/money/beekeepers-want-government-to-pull-pesticide-1107701.html

Bees in freefall as study shows sharp US decline
http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2011/jan/03/bumblebees-study-us-decline?INTCMP=SRCH

Pesticide industry involvement in EU risk assessment puts survival of bees at stake
http://www.corporateeurope.org/agribusiness/news/2010/11/16/pesticide-industry-future-bees

A faery Special Guest Post

2011-04-06T15:00:00.015-04:00

Everything I Know about Faeries I Learned from my Four-Year-Old

From Syndicated Humor Columnist Robin O'Bryant

Emma

“Momma, dey can fwy weally high and dey hab wings and dey don't want you to catch dem.” Emma nodded her head, excited, her blue eyes wide and serious.

Her knowledge regarding the fae, it would seem, is limitless. But my six-year-old, Aubrey, a skeptic, couldn't help but argue with her little sister as Emma attempted to share her wealth of knowledge with us.

“EMMA! Faeries are NOT real!” Aubrey said with her hands on her hips. “They are just pretend, just like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus-- but they don't like it if you catch them.” She contradicted herself without even realizing it.

I think I just heard you gasp. That's right, my kids don't believe in Santa or The Bunny.

Aubrey

Some people might call me a Bible thumper and they might be a little bit right. I grew up in the church and I'm raising my kids that way, which means we celebrate our holy days in very traditional ways. I hope you won't hold that against me because we spent an entire morning talking about faeries, and I really want to share it with you.

Signe was my neighbor in Charleston for a very short time. She moved in and I moved out in only a few weeks time. When we met and realized we were both writers, we immediately started quizzing each other on what the other was reading, writing, and who we knew.

Signe told me she was working on a book about faeries and I assumed it was fiction. When I learned it was non-fiction, I assumed Signe was wackadoo. (I kid. I thought she was amazing and lovely, because she is.) But I didn't understand exactly what she was working on.

I was intrigued but skeptical as I read Faery Tale, but after falling in love with Signe in person, I knew there had to be substance to the book. As I read, I found myself agreeing with Signe's insights again and again.

I'm not one of those Christians who thinks she knows everything, and I realize there are a lot of those around. From what I've seen of it, God's creation is big. If he exists, and I think he does, he must be even bigger. I'm teaching my children to love and respect everyone around them, regardless of how they look, dress or what they believe. And I am raising my children to believe in themselves, in the power of their creativity, in the power of their imaginations and that sometimes magical, unexplainable things happen.

I believe that there are spiritual things in other realms that we cannot comprehend and I think anyone would be ignorant to say they know what lies outside of what we can see.

Are faeries real?

I really couldn't say from my own experiences. But I spent Saturday stretched out on a quilt under the dappled sunlight of an extremely old pecan tree captivated by my daughters' imaginations.

Even my six-year-old cynic, Aubrey, while she firmly maintained her stance that faeries were only make believe, couldn't help but get swept away in our conversation. Aubrey mused that faeries must have saltshakers full of dew to sprinkle on plants and spider webs while we sleep.

Emma, the most mischievous and mechanically minded child I have ever encountered, borrowed an image from Disney and explained at length about “Tinks,” faeries whose job it is to fix or tinker with all things broken-- and believe me, Emma knows about broken things.

Sadie, my roly-poly, dimpled toddler strapped on some sparkly wings and giggling, ran through the grass with her bare feet, occasionally pausing to flap her arms.

Sadie

To me, faeries are the glitter and the sparkle in my daughters' eyes.

They are the possibility of magic and something more.

They are at the heart of imagination and imagination is at the heart of faith.

How do we believe in anything if we can't first imagine it exists?

I don't know exactly what faeries are, but I know they turned a hum-drum Saturday at my house into an outdoor adventure full of magic and imagination my kids will remember for years to come, and that is worth believing in.

Robin O'Bryant is a syndicated humor columnist, author and tweetaholic. (@robinobryant) She blogs about the ridiculousness and hilarity of motherhood over on Robin's Chicks, which she hopes is never used against her in a court of law, because that would totally suck.

To be or not to be... Vegetarian.

2011-04-05T11:26:00.000-04:00

First, I feel I should preface my Facebook claim of "Day 1 of Vegetarianism" in its proper context:

I am not a confirmed, do or die vegetarian. It's not that I don't want to be. Well, kind of. But making life changes takes time, and patience, and I've learned that making concrete proclamations about things is a sure sign that I'm not going to follow through on it.

So instead, I try to go easy on myself and listen to my body.

It told me to please stop drinking coffee, so I gave that a whirl, finding that drinking tea made my body feel cleaner, lighter, and my heart even stopped doing that poundy-thing it had been doing when I was nervous about something. But if there's one thing I learned from Faery Tale, it's that once we begin to listen to our intuition, there's no turning back. Er, you could, but that wouldn't be very magical at all!

Lately, the conversation betwixt me and my body went something like this:

"Uh, is this meat?"
Yes.
"No thanks."
Really?
"Yeah. Don't want it."
Okay. So.... (awkward pause) I guess that free-range chicken in the freezer is out of the question?

The texture, the flavor, the... meatness of it just didn't feel right. I found I was craving green things, and plant things, and so I decided as an experiment, to go veg for one week. Day One I half-assed my way through some white bean chili (lacking such essential things as green pepper, green chilis, onion or cilantro) but it turned out pretty darn good actually, and I felt like such a pioneer, soaking the dried beans in water and then boiling them. I am a survivor! I thought. All in all it was a good day. Plus there were so many leftovers, lunch was taken care of on Tuesday. Tuesday night I made my mom's spinach lasagna and garlic pan "roasted" brusselsprouts, which were freaking phenomenal, and after a few buddies wondered about how I made 'em, I promised to post the recipes on-line.

Vegetarian deliciousness

Linda Johanson's Spinach Lasagna:

I box lasagna noodles

1 extra large jar Classico Four Cheese Pasta Sauce

1 pkg. shredded reduced fat mozzerella

2 pkgs. frozen spinach

1 large container of fat-free ricotta cheese

1 oz. chopped fresh basil

1 oz. chopped fresh parsley

1 oz. chopped fresh oregano (can substitute smaller amounts of dried for all three if fresh is unavailable)

1 egg

pinch of salt and fresh ground pepper

1 can Kraft Parmesan cheese

Thaw the spinach in a colander and preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a large pot put the pasta water up to boil and cook noodles in a pinch of salt until tender. While the pasta is cooking, empty the ricotta into a large mixing bowl. Create a little divet in the center and crack the egg into it.

Toss in the basil, parsley, oregano, salt and pepper and stir to combine.

In a 9 x 13" metal or glass baking pan spread a thin layer of red sauce, and on top of that place one layer of noodles.

Gently layer your toppings on top of the first layer of noodles in this order:

Ricotta mixture

Spinach (be sure to squeeze any extra moisture out of it!)

Red sauce

Mozzerella

sprinkle of Kraft parmesan

Layer your noodles in opposite directions in each new layer -- so if you laid them down the long way on the first layer, lay them across the width of the pan on the second layer, using scissors to trim them to the right length. On the final layer -- when you can fit no more -- put only noodles, red sauce, and parmesan. (My mom claims the mozz. is ill-fitted for the top layer because it's faster to burn, and I don't question Linda Johanson.)

Bake for 30 minutes, until the dish is bubbling slightly. Remove and cool for 10 mins before serving.

Tobias John's Pan Roasted Brussel Sprouts
This recipe comes from KP's husband, a gardener and outdoor adventurer extraordinaire, and he made it for us over Thanksgiving, but I love brussel sprouts anytime of year!

Rinse brussel sprouts well in a colander under cold water. With a small paring knife, cut the white bottom from each sprout, and peel off any tough or brown outside layers quickly. Cut each brussel sprout into quarters (this allows them to cook sufficiently in the pan, so size does matter, heh-heh) and set aside.

Peel 2 big cloves of garlic and mince (or have your garlic press at the ready).
In a medium frying pan heat 2 teaspoons of olive oil on medium high heat.
Add the sprouts and stir every minute or so until they begin to turn darker green and bit of them begin to brown. Add the crushed garlic, sprinkle with salt and fresh ground pepper, cook for 3 minutes more, and serve.

This week marks the beginning of our CSA boxes from Ambrose Family Farms.... grown with the gentle aid of South Carolina Fae, I'm certain.... I can't wait to dive in. Eric and I are ridiculously excited about this first box of vegetables. Write me with any great spring recipes!

For Daughters, For Sons

2011-03-18T11:12:00.000-04:00

My father, Alan Pike, with my big sister, Kirsten

I heard a few days ago that one of my good friends just lost her father unexpectedly. I know the pain of this. There are so many troubling events that shake us, and more it seems, in recent days, with the environmental disaster in Japan, the loss of our wildlife on US shores to inexplicable reasons.

I'm sure that nobody wants to read about death on a Friday, but death is an inescapable part of life. It doesn't mean we can learn how to embrace it, though some have. It doesn't mean we can learn how to heal, because some never will. But it can offer us a powerful lesson in living: love.

We can send our prayers, our love, and any money, goods, or supplies we can to aid relief efforts around the world when disaster strikes. No gift, thought, or amount is too small.

We can turn off the water when we're brushing our teeth, start collecting rain water in a barrel, reduce our weekly amount of trash, or try to use electricity conservatively to show our love for the earth.

We can write a letter, make a phone call, or send an email to let people in pain know that we care. I wrote this poem maybe five years ago for my friend Marcie when her father died shortly after I lost mine. I sent it to my friend in England today, and I wanted to share it with you, incase there's someone you know that it might speak to.

With love,
Signe

(For Marcie)

Too many people have died

this year

and I just can't keep my head up.

The tears plow instead, persistently

into the sorrow of it all

and in weeping this

strange pain

in weeping into this hollowness

I spit it back into the world.

There is something about a man and his dog --

and we can't explain it,

Marcie

and

we just can't explain it, but all we can tell you is:

the smell of late autumn leaves and shadows of sunlight and paws and boots and fur and

a moment by the creek

listening to the chuckle of ice cold water

and the pillowing of a head on a rock

the washing of ears with the sound of the stream.

There is something terrible about a man leaving his dog,

because dogs wait.

We pour our grief into musty bedspreads,

cry cradling a pair of sturdy wool socks.

We cancel cell phone contracts and name executors and close out the visa account and sell the house and drive by the next time we’re in town

and break to pieces all over again.

But they,

they wait by the door,

or by the bed,

wait for the jangle of keys that mean

with a gentle smile,

it’s time for a stroll,

and even when the walking got tough,

they wait in January packed snow

business complete

wait to come inside to the warm.

There is something so terrible about fathers who loved,

and leave their

puppies

behind

and all we can do is wait

and howl our ache

into the moon

that shimmies over the night time gorge water

and miss them and MISS them every day

and pound our fists into the earth

and catch springtime bees on our fingers

and soak the growing cracks of our faces in tears

because

eventually we know

there is something about a great man

and being his daughter

there is something about dying

that leaves you behind, waiting your turn

and there is something about being the daughter of a great man

that helps you know this,

and you live a little better

and try to smile a little more with your eyes

and say, "I'm sorry, I fucked up" with a little more gusto

because we all take our turn

it's only a matter of when

and

when I go,

all I want to keep are the sun speckled leaves,

the sound of rushing water,

the feeling of his callused hand in mine

and just a head,

the flicker of a white-tipped tail

disappearing around a bend

in the winding, muddy trail.

A RETURN TO FAERY: Experience the Enchantment of Ancient England with Me and Raven Keyes!

2011-02-03T18:06:00.002-05:00

This has been months and months of planning in the works. Finally, Raven and I are thrilled to announce that we'll be taking a group of nine seekers to Glastonbury, England this summer for one hell of a tour. And yes, I'll be making your breakfast. Click on the flyer to enlarge/see more details.

The Faery Foodie

2011-02-03T11:40:00.000-05:00

I bet you didn't know that I am incredibly, passionately, obsessively in love with food. Yes, it's true.

I worked eight years in the restaurant business everywhere from Ithaca to New York City to Nantucket, and now that I attempt to carve out a living as a writer, I was lucky enough to score a gig as a food writer for The Charleston City Paper. Incidentally, I hope my comment will hold more weight, those of you who have read my book, when I reiterate -- that chicken curry the Bikers made on Isle of Man? Phenomenal. (The trick is you have to leave it on the stove while you go to the Pub.)

So what's on my mind this week? None other than the Super Bowl, of course. This is a time when Eric and I throw a party -- he, so he'll have people to watch the game with, me, so I can pretend to be excited about watching the game and make delicious food. I try to watch, I really do. And it's not that I don't like football. I simply find eating, drinking, and conversing with wonderful people so much more rewarding than staring at a big screen TV. Go Packers.

Half time will find me in the sunroom, having (hopefully) lured a few of my gal-pals in behind me with a lovely, full-bodied glass of Cab, where we will be snacking and talking about gal-pal things while the die-hards hoot and holler from the living room. Thankfully, my husband doesn't mind my nefarious sun-room sneaking ways. At least, he probably figures, he knows where to find me.

So who has some delicious football favorites? This year I wanted to focus on variety in every sense of the word. On our menu:

- Sweet & Sour Meatballs

- Chicken Taquitos

- Bacon Chocolate Chip Cookies

Yes, that's right. Bacon.
The chicken taquitos come from Hungry Girl, so 2 taquitos only have 2.5 grams of fat and 197 calories. The other two are god-awful for you. But oh so delicious. And the thing I love best about this meatball recipe (if you could even call it a recipe) is that is so freaking easy.

Here are the links incase you'd like to whip any of these up:

http://www.ourbestbites.com/2010/02/sweet-and-sour-meatballs-easy.html

http://www.cookingchanneltv.com/recipes/lisa-lillien/exploding-chicken-taquitos-recipe/index.html

http://cravingchronicles.com/2010/10/05/bacon-chocolate-chip-cookies/

Write me with your favorites - And as my father would say... bon appetit tout le monde!

Quote of the Day

2011-02-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

"A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. We experience ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest. A kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from the prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

The true value of a human being is determined by the measure and the sense in which they have obtained liberation from the self. We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if humanity is to survive." (Albert Einstein, 1954)

February Horoscopes are up...

2011-02-01T10:08:00.001-05:00

Greetings, Friends:

The magnanimous Susan Miller, Astrologist extraordinaire, has uploaded everyone's February horoscope... much of the time I'm not sure what I think about Astrology. And then I read my horoscope, and hers always seem to be eerily spot-on. So now I await the first of the month with fervent abandon.

Give it a whirl: http://www.astrologyzone.com/forecasts/

Perhaps the Universe has some goodies in store for you this month.

With love,
Signe

How About Now?

2011-01-20T21:26:00.001-05:00

First, I have to say, I'M ON AN AIRPLANE... AND I'M ON THE INTERNET!

Perhaps I'm late ushering in the inter-web on the plane thing, but if you're willing to pay $12.95, and you happen to be stuck on a plane for 5 hours and 50 minutes with NO INFLIGHT MOVIES.... (I keep looking at the cabin ceiling, wondering when our complimentary in-flight tellies are going to miraculously lower down and I can finally watch Emma Stone's Easy A...) you'll pay the thirteen dollars. I mean, isn't our sanity worth at least that?

But now I'm eyeing my quickly depleting computer battery like it's the last Snickers in the bottom of the halloween bag. Three hours and fifteen minutes to go before landing. Battery survival? 45 minutes.

Anyhow, I wanted to write today, to remind myself as much as anyone else who may read this, about something important: "How about now?"

I'll explain. Because "How about now" has been on my mind a good deal over the past two months that I've been touring to talk about Faery Tale. And it's really helped me to maintain both a sense of peace of mind and of presence in an invaluable way.

I happen to have a fabulous therapist. Er, friend. Er, life coach. I really don't know what exactly to call him. But actually, I call him Shaman Jon, because that's his name. Shaman Jon is a very wise, loving, kind, expansive, and highly evolved spiritual fellow who often says things to me that have a way of sinking in and changing the way I think, feel, or behave in beautifully positive ways. We were talking about nervousness, anxiety, and displeasure -- you know the general sort of malaise that seeks us all out when we're least expecting it, and suddenly, pounces and before you know it, it's sunk its terrible claws into you and you're dragging your feet around the house all slumped over, thinking, "I am just filled to brimming with terrible malaise!!" Or some such thing. Well, Shaman Jon shared with me the secret of "How about now?"

He asked me to imagine that everything I had -- I mean, everything -- every material possession, every person I loved, even the roof over my head -- was taken away. I know! It's actually a really horrible, emotional and unpleasant thought. But I went there. I went to a place where I had somehow lost everything that once held meaning to me. I stood, in my imagination, on the beach. Imagined that even the tent I'd been sleeping in now was gone. I looked up at the sky, thankful, at least, for sunshine in this imaginary moment of mine. And then I allowed it to begin to rain.

It was just me, and the cold, miserable, pelting rain.
And the ocean.
So vast, so eternal. And then he asked me to consider. "How about now?"
In other words, will life go on? Am I okay? Am I still able to find a way to be okay, if everything external, even the people I love, have disappeared, and all I have is myself? I sat with that. Because this isn't about disregarding the people or things that you love, really. It's about being able to be okay, no matter what life brings you, with just you. Your own body, your own thoughts, your own ability to perceive the world, and the gift of your life, in a grateful and meaningful way.

Yes, I thought. I am okay. "How about now" has become a way to check in for me, when the trivial things in life begin to grate, when I find I'm getting annoyed or moody or feeling disconnected or stingy or any of those things that we don't like to admit we feel sometimes.
When the woman sitting behind you in the plane who keeps inadvertently kicking your seat. A lot. The man at the grocery store who just really feels the need to talk for a very long time about the weather, and the football game last night, and where the cashier's nephew goes to high school, and you have T-minus 20 seconds before company arrives at your house or you're going to be late for a meeting or your bladder is going to burst. These examples may or may not be taken from my own life.

So maybe I'm on a plane and I'm STARVING because all I've had to eat for dinner was a granola bar and a handful of trail mix, and I'm dehydrated and I left my water bottle on the connecting flight, the person behind me is kicking my seat, my neck hurts, this flight is the interminable flight from hell, I could practically be in London by the time we land, and I miss my husband and my house and my friends and my freakishly small black cat, and I've been home for only 2 weeks and now I'm back on the road again... and... "How about now?" Am I okay?

And I take score of the moment: I'm sitting aboard a plane to Seattle, where I will be able to be with my sister for her 33rd birthday. I'm a writer with a story that people have been moved by -- and what joy that I get to travel across the country to stand in Barnes & Noble tomorrow and talk about my journey.

Suddenly, "How about now" feels more okay. And my capacity to breathe and be myself and be a better human is, for the time being restored.

So there it is. My $13.00 gift to myself, and to you.

"How about now?"

I hope you'll have as many, if not more, blessings to count as 2011 shines on.

The Rose Petal Tea

2011-01-03T11:11:00.000-05:00

When I was in Italy four years ago, I bought rose petal tea.

I was there visiting an author I worked with who lived in Umbria, and she and her husband took me to a tiny village in up in the hills. The name of the place escapes me, consequences of a whirlwind tour with every day something magical, and probably too, the fact that she and I had both just lost our fathers. So thankful to be guided, I wandered Italy, trailing behind my hosts, my head titled up at the late winter sunshine, every pore in me desperate to receive: the breeze ruffling through the hilltowns, the rich, silty taste of a morning espresso, the undulating sounds of voices murmuring in Italian and the way it echoed from the ancient cobblestone streets.

The town that was home to the most enchanting tea shop I've ever seen was the site of an ancient Roman bath. It lay there still, the waters dark and peaceful in February, and I was still trying to comprehend the fact that there had been people bathing in its waters for thousands of years when it was time once more to wander, and we crossed the threshold of a gift shop, walking down a few old stairs.

Inside there was a woman with short graying hair who watched us keenly. The shop was filled with incense, bubble bath, beautifully crafted Italian pottery, tea cups, and old wooden barrels filled with various teas. I lifted the lid of one and my nostrils were met with the most delicate fragrance. The loose black tea was laden with deep pink dried rose petals, and their scent was soft, sweet, enchanting. The contrast of black tea and deep pink petals was one of the most beautiful things, oddly, that I'd ever seen. And I believed that if I drank that tea, some of that beauty would continue to live inside me. Some delicate attribute of those petals that sprang from the sun, grew up from the deep ground, clipped at their glory to be tied in bunches and dried for our selfish (but in my case at least, appreciative) consumption, could possibly take root in me, and I could grow, too. The bottom line was, buying that tea was no longer an option, it was a carnal desire.

Back home in the Upper West side, I brewed my first cup on a sunday morning when I was feeling so homesick for places that made me want to believe things, when Monday was looming, sickening and large, when my tiny studio apartment felt too utterly quiet, when I felt too entirely alone. I remember I curled my feet underneath me and settled back into the depth of my windowsill that looked out over Broadway and 69th street. I closed my eyes and inhaled, experiencing the scent and the warmth meeting my nose and mouth at the same time, and when I sipped it, I found peace with my internal world. After that, I knew the incredible power of my secret stash of tea, its single-minded ability to bring me back to a place that I lost and tried to recover on a daily basis: myself. So I doled it out carefully, like the precious commodity that it was -- sharing it with a friend who was heartsick, a neighbor in need of wonder, and finally, a man I never believed I would meet, with dark eyes and a disarming dimple in his left cheek -- a man who I married three years later.

But this morning, the tea is simply for me, as she was always intended to be.

I found her sitting still in the old blue tin on my kitchen counter, immortal like the faeries. It's a somewhat common belief that black tea can only remain "good" for two - three years, and yet this tea and I, we are going on four, and my tin is still three quarters full and smelling as transformative as it did that February afternoon beside the crumbling wall of an ancient roman pool.

A Poem from Darryl Price

2010-12-14T01:10:00.000-05:00

Darryl Price is a reader and poet who contacted me, and we had a lovely correspondence... the week of Thanksgiving he sent me this lovely poem inspired by my book, which I received while on the beach of Caper's Island with my sister, harvesting oysters.

It made my day, and with his permission, I'd love to share it here:

Colored Orbs Floating Above Grass
by Darryl Price

"We all shine on."--John Lennon

for Signe

We find there are still a great many good

witches all down the western leys who will

come and wash their rings in the chalice fed

springs at Glastonbury,mirroring the

bright lights living there who shine with their own

softly sensuous humming, to purify

their own reasons for caring, helping

to continue the dance we're sending on

its merry sparkling spiraling way home

again.Just knowing this makes us come alive

with possibilities for fresh poetries

within the many tired old stairways.

I know those rings are out there pulsing

off those fingers right now like palmtree fireworks

just waiting to crackle and burst forth

a most colorful just treatment for one

and all used to defend the path of

spirit with compassion's brave kindness.

Colorado in Winter

2010-12-13T01:19:00.000-05:00

Black Cat Books Signing, Manitou Springs

Faery Display for the Dec. 15 Erie Library Event

I've been touring now off and on since November 8th, but luckily for me, Colorado feels like home. So many great experiences to share, and yet, I am so exhausted right now... so in the meantime, I'm posting some pictures.... you know what they say... a picture is worth a thousand words... not that these pictures are that amazing, really. But I hope you like them.

I'm going to sleep now, and it's going to be sooo wonderful.

Be well,

Manitou Springs at dusk

Ruh, who is not adverse to being posed and exploited when it comes to faeries.

The reading nook at Black Cat Books in Manitou Springs... the window overlooks a creek. Heaven!

Border's Signing in Colorado Springs, CO to support the Pike's Peak Writers

The Celestial Seasonings Operation near Boulder, CO -- a definite highlight.

The Front Range at Sunset

Signe

Lowcountry Women Authors Holiday Signing

2010-11-30T18:08:00.000-05:00

If you live within a few hours of Charleston, I hope you'll consider coming out to this weekend's event, the Women Authors Holiday Signing. 15% of book proceeds go to fund programs at The Center for Women, and while there are many great causes in town, I have to say, The Center for Women is one of the best of them. They provide educational programs on emotional, physical and financial health, life transitions, discrimination of all types, multiculturalism, and career and business for women from all walks of life, and I've been nothing but impressed with every interaction I've had with them.

Women Authors Holiday Book Signing & Tea
Saturday, December 4
2 - 5 p.m.
South Carolina Thrift & Resale
1670 Hwy 17 N, Mt Pleasant (next to new CVS)
$10 at the door
Free giftwrapping, Readings, Tea & refreshments
Center for Women
With Barnes & Noble (use your Barnes & Noble discount card)
Special Thanks to Kaminsky's

2010 Authors Michelle Adams * Sarah Boone * Ida Becker * Sharon Becker * Cleo Brown * Nina Bruhns * Jan DiRuzzo * MaryAnn Dunham * Nathalie Dupree * Peg Eastman * Dixie Fanning * Linda Annas Ferguson * Jayne Jaudon Ferrer * Mary Edna Fraser * Rebecca Godwin * Pattie Welek Hall * The Hat Ladies * Holly Herrick * Maggie Hoybach & Joan Brown * Trish Hutchinson * Ann Ipock * Marcie Jacobs * Charlotte Jenkins * Kate Boehm Jerome * Kieran Kramer * Ann Kulze * CJ Lyons * Susan Laughter Meyers * Dianne Miley * Sheila Mills * Mary Alice Monroe * Signe Pike * Margot Theis Raven * Maryann Reid * Lisa D. Robinson & Lori Robinson * Terry Ward Tucker * Lily Herndon Weaks * Marjory Wentworth

Readings
2:00 p.m. -- Signe Pike
2:30 p.m. -- Mary Ann Reid
3:00 p.m. -- Mary Alice Monroe
3:30 p.m. -- Charlottte Jenkins
4:00 p.m. -- Ann Ipock
4:30 p.m. -- CJ Lyons

Thanksgiving: For my Father

2010-11-29T16:00:00.002-05:00

Losing my father sneaks up on me

Like this grey day and the sidewalks of New York

Where my father spent his prom night on the starlight roof of the Waldorf Astoria

Jones Beach to watch the sunrise

Back home before breakfast, bacon and eggs,

Or how he took the ferry from Kyle of Lochalsh to Portree on Skye

just to taste a drop of pure single malt whiskey, just to fall from his chair,

Because Scotland was a search for the Loch Ness monster, the epic hero and his quest for a trophy, a bite on the nose, or how my sister and I walked those same streets fourty-five years later,

Hoping to trip over

Just one footprint.

There’s the photograph artlessly tacked to the wall of the dead man and the dead dog

two ghosts peering wildly up that steep stone staircase.

I dreamt he was swinging on a net, hanging over the fastest running gorge and he told me to jump

I dreamt I heard his deep clear voice, calling in the early morning hours for the dog

I dreamt we opened his refrigerator and it was brand new, stainless steel and empty

I dreamt I was in a car, pulling away and he was holding my hand until he couldn’t, anymore.

In springtime the ice will melt from the pathway of Upper Treeman

like it always does

the urn is always waiting, anyway

we ask ourselves what this means

to keep him, so long after he’s gone

so long after he’s puzzled over poems, scarring them with a green pen,

so long after he’s delivered the last omlet on a Sunday morning with ham, peppers, onions and Olde English just how we like?

Thanksgiving this time we would go walking in the woods, naming things,

or we’d drink our hazelnut coffee, eat too much and head out the front door to find the Grandfather tree. There would be the looping of our fingers as we stretched our way around the trunk in the quiet forest with the leaves turning brown and drifting all around us, drifting into the glassy, bass-filled water of the pond across the street.

The picture window of the kitchen steamy with the heat of a thousand delicious dinner smells,

the radio blasting Prarie Home Companion, the little man dancing around on the dull terracotta tiles, smiling, teaching me how to fox trot.

NPR's All Things Considered: Three Books Segment

2010-11-17T16:33:00.000-05:00

This was a blast -- check out my recommended "Three Books to Help Grown-Ups Believe Again!"

http://www.npr.org/2010/11/15/131330480/three-books-to-help-grown-ups-believe-again

Faerie Con 2010

2010-11-17T16:20:00.000-05:00

It was a whizzing blur of feathers, cloaks, costumes and wings this past weekend at the Hunt Valley Marriott Hotel in Maryland for this year's event, where faerie fans from across the country gather to "Celebrate the Magical Life."

This being my first "Con," I was utterly wowed from the moment we arrived at the hotel. As far as the eye could see, there were faeries everywhere. If only I'd known -- I could've saved myself three months research and a big fat airline ticket. All kidding aside, it was an eye-popping experience. Vendors manned their tables filled with ornately carved masks, delicate gold and silversmith work, books, corsets, dresses, wings (of course! And how many to pick from... if you're willing to carry them onto an airplane...) dolls, dragons, music, the list goes on.... and on...

A woodland faerie and a Betty Paige lookalike attend the Good Faeries Ball

Author Carolyn Turgeon and I shared a room and once we got settled we got gussied up to attend the Good Faeries Ball, where we entered a dark ballroom filled with throngs of costume clad merrymakers and a foot thumping array of musical entertainment. My mask securely in place, I danced without a care... it was so freeing, you know, to be anonymous, and wild, and to be able to dance with abandon.

From top to bottom: The Faeries of Sproutwood Farms, some faerie mischief, and me getting some mermaid hair

Saturday was filled with three panels -- I spoke about "Faerie Tales in Modern Times," with Jane Yolen, Tiffany Trent, Melissa Marr and Maggie Stiefvater, in which we explored the current and historical fascination with faeries and fairy tales in human culture, and after lunch did a reading from the book for "A Writer's Life," which was a total blast. (The Glastonbury section, if anyone is curious... )

But the highlight of the weekend by far -- aside from getting to hang, workout, and wine with the sassy and fabulous world traveler and ridiculously talented writer Carolyn T. -- was re-uniting with Brian and Wendy Froud for the panel entitled "Seeking Faerie: the Search for Enchantment." Though we were without a moderator (et-hmmmm, FaerieCon organizers, that was not fun) I flung myself into that role and it was the perfect dynamic actually, for the Froud's to share their wit, whimsy, experience, and deep running wisdom regarding all things fae. It was a wonderful success and I was approached afterwards by many a conference goer who found something inspirational, fun, or educational about the 45 minute session. It was super rewarding.

By Sunday my throat was raspy from projecting (I was supposed to only moderate two panels, and ended up speaking on/moderating FOUR...) but with the opportunity to just hang out and enjoy the festivities, energy was still running high.

Sunday by five the vendors began packing up -- it was sad to watch faerie land crumble.

But invigorating to think (or hope, in my case) that we'll all be back to do it again next year.
Oh yes.

And I got a tattoo.

Ladies Lotto: Books, Booze and Burlesque! Oh My! Faery Tale Book...

2010-11-08T18:07:00.000-05:00

Ladies Lotto: Books, Booze and Burlesque! Oh My! Faery Tale Book...: "On Thursday, November 11th, join author Signe Pike, for an evening of cocktails, conversation and a little mystical misbehaving. Hear a read..."

Foggy Morning...

2010-11-04T10:24:00.000-04:00

Faery Tale received a glowing review for the Reading List on Harper's Bazaar.com this morning:
http://www.harpersbazaar.com/bazaar-blog/faery-tale-book-review-1110

Here in Charleston it's cool and foggy -- the mist hugs the shrubs and bushes of our very suburban neighborhood and I can't help but think how much the air out there feels like Scotland.
Which I miss.
So much.

I remember standing, my feet on the edge of the beach on Isle of Skye, mourning the fact that I had to leave, and again on the sand at the Moray Firth, Findhorn Bay. Looking out at the gray-green water I promised myself I'd remember: this is the same ocean that touches our eastern shores. One particle, one small particle of air, of moisture, of water, will somehow carry its way over, and find me, standing on the sand on Sullivan's Island, South Carolina.

I try to remember this on mornings like today, when I want to be walking the gently tumbling line of Fairy Pools up into the Cullin mountains. When I wish I were sitting in a spongy soft sweater, reading in a cafe in Edinburgh. When I am longing to explore again the mysterious hills of Fairy Glen, with their moss covered trees and brightly colored foxglove.

And so I am out, now, to take a walk in the mist.

A Book is Born

2010-11-02T17:34:00.000-04:00

Last night I couldn't sleep.
It wasn't an anxious, horrible sort of feeling, nor was it a smacking my head on the ceiling in excitement kind of feeling. It was a sort of calm alertness that kept me awake -- a certain settled sense of relief, I finally figured out.

As I lay there gazing at the ceiling, I wondered, Is this how women feel, the night before they give birth? Excited to see the baby in person, but good and ready to... (forgive me) have it out of them? Because more than anything, I felt relief.

The waiting is over, and so is the indecision, because now that my story has been born, she will embark on a life of her own. She'll meet people who will want to befriend her, people who will ridicule her (I know this much not just from being an editor, but from life!) people who will see things in her that they want to see, people who will not see anything in her at all. But it doesn't rest on me anymore.

Now I all can do is tend to her. Everything is out of my control, and it feels so incredibly freeing, in a way. Of course I want nothing more than to protect her -- after all, she is such a huge part of me. But the peace comes in having had the opportunity to bring her into this world at all. The peace comes in the sheer joy of being able to share her.

The peace comes in hearing the stories from women who were inspired to make a change because of the change I made myself.
Like the girl who booked a week in Ireland, spent sitting in pubs feeling the trad sessions thrumming, resonating within the old wooden walls. Or the girl who flew to Isle of Man, where she looked for a faery tale of her own.
Or the woman who is going to tend to her backyard garden in an even more connective way, and in spring time, a new partnership will be born.

My great friend Liz Butler called and left me a message today -- she said it would make her day to hear the excitement in my voice. Funnily, it made my day to hear the excitement in hers. These are the moments I relish since rediscovering enchantment in its many forms -- the day by day, "normal" sorts of things that most of us don't recognize before it's too late.
The incredible power and warmth of a friend, calling, with such high hopes, with such enthusiasm, for someone, anyone... you. This is what makes living beautiful. This is what I want to share.
All of these things are gifts that Faery Tale has given me.

And so I've done my part.

Now it's up to her.

A Promise

2010-10-12T11:32:00.000-04:00

With thanks to Cathy Wilke, for passing this along... typically I shy away from quotes with a high cheese factor, but the message is undeniably important, and for me, it was nothing less than inspiring. So I wanted to share:

"I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch a promise.

I choose to risk my significance;

to live so that which came to me as a seed goes to the next as blossom and that which came to me as blossom goes on as fruit."

- Dawna Markova

Faeries in Charleston

2010-09-26T13:34:00.005-04:00

Faery Tale was a Charleston magazine Editor's Pick! It's a gorgeous magazine, but for any who live far beyond the marshy shores of the Lowcountry, I've posted it here, with huge thanks to Jacqui Calloway for the lovely review.

Finished books should be arriving in stores in the next three weeks here in the United States!

It looks like the UK edition will go on sale in June 2011, just in time for my visit with John, Wol, Paul, Huw, Big John and crew on the Isle of Man.

EDITOR’S PICK: Faery Tale, by Signe Pike
"Lowcountry newcomer signe Pike’s travel memoir will make readers want to hand in their two-weeks notice and head to the UK for a cup of elder-berry tea and some good lore. as the book begins, Pike decides that she’s had enough of adulthood disenchantment and wants to recover her child-hood belief in magic. so she waves goodbye to the Big apple and hello to England, Scotland, Ireland, and Mexico, where she does some serious research, interviews faery-savvy folk, visits sacred moors and stone circles,
and makes a few good pals along the way.

A former book editor and a fantastic writer, Pike is hilarious, easy to identify with, and honest enough to
admit that sleeping alone surrounded by spiteful aluxes (the fabled trolls inhabiting Mexico) is downright terrifying. Reading about her bumming around the world for a couple months, you’ll envy her, of course, but you’ll also start to believe that her faery encounters could be the real deal. For the record,
I’m beginning to wonder...."
—Jacqui Calloway, Charleston magazine

Faery Website...

2010-09-16T15:52:00.002-04:00

After weeks of slaving, the book website has finally arrived. Slaving on the part of the fantastic Rachel Estrada-Ryan, that is, web designer extraordinaire of her company Both is Better LLC.

Visit the website for tour dates, reviews, and more excitingly... to view trip photos and the evidence collected on my enchanted sojourn to Ireland and the United Kingdom.

With faery special wishes,
Signe

http://www.signepike.com

Murmurs

2010-08-31T13:18:00.000-04:00

A space within this blog for quotes, language, or ideas.

"The things a man has heard and seen are the threads of life, and if he can pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best."

-- William Butler Yeats, The Celtic Twilight

Talking 'bout Faeries

2010-08-03T16:23:00.001-04:00

Funnily enough, it never truly occurred to me that if I were to write a book about exploring the existence or non-existence of faeries, people would be someday asking me some very tough questions about them.

My father always wanted to write, and yet was so paralyzed by his inner-critic, he never wrote a single word. Though he told tales of magical Tibetan Longumpas, or a man who traveled the wilderness dowsing for water, after he passed away, nothing remained of these stories except for the flicker of light they'd kindled in my imagination. In order for me to write, especially given my years of professional evaluation of other's writing, I had to shut my inner-critic down. This is an altogether comical process for any writer, and I'm still mastering my various techniques, but the one that has worked best so far, is to simply pretend that no one is ever going to read it. In this way, I write for myself, I write to understand, and most importantly, I continue to write honestly. It's not influenced by anything but my desire to entertain (myself) and learn something about the world around me. And no one else is ever going to see it, I tell myself. Though my inner-critic, sporting a sweater set, plain white pearls, a tight bun and wire-rimmed glasses, whispered evilly, For now.

You look like a librarian. I snapped, knowing this would get her goat. To this, she sniffed, and went back to her reading.

This technique of course, becomes a problem when people do see it.
And then, naturally, there are things that they'd really like to know.

I can't help but smile when I realize in discussing Faery Tale, whether at a party on Sullivan's island or over the phone with a journalist, people are asking me the very same questions I first asked of my interview subjects when writing the book.

But what is a faery? I asked Brian Froud.

How can I see one? I asked Peter Knight.

Why do you believe that faeries are real? (I asked pretty much everybody.)

The trouble is, I'm no faerie expert. Yes, I've been there, done that, and happened to have written the book. But my adventure, truly, is just beginning. The true experts are the people I met along the way -- Sure, I can spout Brian Froud's beliefs, or folk lore, or discuss what the story teller Eddie Lenihan told me -- but as for me, my journey is on-going. I very consciously made the decision that my job as a writer is not to tell people how to believe, or to believe or not to believe, but to share my story, and in sharing my story, allow people to draw their own inspirations, their own conclusions. For my part, my story of 'figuring this all out' continues. What I do, I hope, is to provide both myself and readers with the pieces to a puzzle -- some which are quite compelling -- some which have helped me to believe. But the puzzle itself isn't a puzzle about there being faeries or no faeries. The puzzle pieces belong to the story about the reality of human existence. And that is a wee-bit of a heady topic for any interview; mine or theirs!

Talking 'bout faeries is a favorite past time of mine. I feel so lucky to get to discuss this topic more over the coming months. I continue to do reading, I continue to do research. Most of all, I continue to work over the experiences I had this past summer, but not because I'm combing for more clues, so much, more so because in remembering my trip I can feel its magic once more.

And really, it's that feeling of enchantment, more than anything, that I would hope to share with others. Because only when we can begin to see our lives as the greatest source of enchantment, can we begin to discuss.... anything.

The Honey Comb - A Trip to the Charleston Farmers Market

2010-07-14T15:41:00.002-04:00

I've been obsessed lately with trying to eat more locally. The importance of this having been drummed into my head by recently watching the documentary Food Inc., which will change the way you shop and eat, probably forever -- but also because I've been thinking a lot about how our bodies adjust to the world around us. Food is the ultimate absorber: since growing a few of my own vegetables this year, I've realized for the first time just how much our veggies are impacted by the world in which they are born. When I eat the zucchini from my garden, I'm not just eating any old zucchini. I'm eating that thunderstorm that came through yesterday like a flash flood, raging as though we should all cease any other activities and immediately commence building our own arks. I'm eating that hot summer sun that beat down on my back all last week, wilting me on even the short trip to the front yard mailbox, causing things to grow and grow until they ripen and burst, and return to the earth. I'm reconsuming every day that has come before this moment, and when you think about it this way, intimately knowing those moments because you were there, and then consuming them, bringing them into your body, eating a zucchini becomes quite a beautiful and miraculous thing.

Yesterday at the farmer's market I roved the stalls like an insatiable woman, loading up on onions, collards, cucumbers, lettuce, asparagus, broccoli, and local chicken from a husband and wife start-up farm called Fili-West Farms -- happy to fork over $20 bucks for 3.5 lbs of boneless skinless chicken breasts after talking with them for nearly 20 minutes about their chicken raising techniques.

And then there was the honeycomb. It caught my eye at the local stand because I knew I wanted to buy SOMETHING there, but I'm pretty flush in the honey department now. There it sat, a big old flat brick of honeycomb, oozing with golden possibility.

"What do you use honeycomb for?" I asked the woman with grey-streaked hair who was manning the table.

"Well," she said, "You can slice it up to put on biscuits, fresh bread or toast...the wax in it is amazing for your digestive track."

Which gave me an idea...

"I bet it would be fabulous with some fruit and some fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano."

"Exactly." She agreed, probably eager to make a sale. And so the next thing I knew, I had handed over $8.00 for my own personal chunk of honeycomb.

So today I'm making tea, and as I'm reaching for my honey to add, I figure, why not go whole hog, and dip into the real thing!

I open up the container and sliced off a chunk with a table knife. It sank into the honeycomb so effortlessly, it was promising. Glopping my serving into my tea mug, I poured the boiling water over it, watching it melt away, thinking, Awesome! It melts away completely. So much less gross this way. Because truthfully, raw honeycomb is a little disgusting. But on my first sip of tea, I got it. Stuck all over my teeth, to be exact. So here I am drinking green tea with a film of honeycomb wax that has settled on top. It's pretty gross. I don't want to know what those round little white things are. Please don't let them be... bee eggs or something. But I feel virtuous. And I will not let my $8.00 go to waste.

Perhaps tomorrow, I'm better off learning how to bake some biscuits.

My First Official Review

2010-07-01T13:49:00.001-04:00

Just in from Kirkus Reviews...

I feel elated, yet defensive. The book world is a small community in many ways, and of course my husband happens to be the non-fiction and managing editor of Kirkus, the pre-publication book review magazine with a reputation for being... Eric likes to say honest -- I, having been on the receiving end as an editor like to say, well, they're somewhat brutal. Of course, as an editor, this is what I knew, made Kirkus mean something -- the fact that a woman named Virginia Kirkus had started it out of her New York City home over 70 years ago, based on a passion for books and providing a forum for honest analysis of them, a tradition they carry on today. My worry is that people in the book business who know us will see this and think it is unearned.

It can be refreshing (if not terrifying) that Kirkus is not here to do anybody any favors. Which was why, when Eric sent my galley off to get its obligatory review, he sent it "blind." To a reviewer who doesn't know who I am, probably doesn't even know that Eric is married, and he blacked out all the distinguishing characteristics -- tore out my author bio page, etc.

When I heard the review was in, my stomach plummeted. But as it turned out, I had nothing to fear... here's the review, below:

A search for faeries—and magic in general—allows former book editor Pike to reclaim a happier, more engaged life.
While working for two different publishers in New York City, a fog of disgruntlement had settled over the author. She was weary of the hustle and bustle, as well as reading piles of manuscripts, but there was also a greater malaise involved. The whole world seemed to be going to hell in a hand basket, and somewhere along the line she had lost her sense of wonder and the joy of surprise. She hungered for a little magic and a belief in something to restore the pleasurable ache of innocence and reinvigorate her daily life. So, Pike decided to go looking for faeries. One of the most appealing aspects of her book is that she does it all with ringing earnestness—even when she’s a witty smart-aleck—and without a hint of frou-frou spirituality. “I wanted to travel the world, find the people who are still awake in that old dreamtime, hear their stories,” she writes. “I was going to find the goddamned fairies.” As the author discovered, there are plenty of them out there, and numerous people for whom faeries are a fact of life to be reckoned with. Through these people, Pike re-engaged with the world in a way that was more typical of her youth. Her deceased father—a complicated, pungent soul who wends his way through the story—had been an energetic guide to the mystery and myth of the outdoors, and he effectively conveyed that to the author, despite her being a fearful kid. Pike writes of her various encounters with faery-believers and faery lands, from New York to Mexico to Ireland to Scotland, in a winning voice that roams freely from melancholy to mirth, incredulity to bright surprise.
“In chasing the beliefs I had as a child, I’d somehow managed to grow up”—into a person easily as captivating as her quarry. -- Kirkus Reviews

Mid-Summer's Eve

2010-06-21T12:49:00.000-04:00

"I believe that faeries exist as a tribe of spirits, and appear to us in the form of men and women." -- Donald McKinnon, 96 years old, Barra Penninsula, Scotland, 1910

In Faery Tale, one of the many startling discoveries that I made was that my trip to the United Kingdom to collect faery lore and study what may be left of local belief, followed another momentous search conducted by an academic at Oxford named Walter Evans-Wentz: exactly 100 years earlier, to the very day.

Academics like Walter Evans-Wentz and even poet and writer William Butler Yeats traveled the countryside in their day, searching to solve the riddle of faeries for themselves. They collected stories and first-hand testimonies from the country folk they encountered who referred to the faeries deferentially as "Themselves," "The Fair Folk," "The Shining Ones." Many a farmer at the turn of the century in Britain and Ireland could claim to have spotted lights coming from within a dark glen, music floating on the evening breeze with no explicable source, catching sight of a ring of faeries dancing, hand-in-hand, and even long lines of tall, stately dressed men and women coming down from the dark hills under the light of the moon.

In faery lore, references abound of the faerie's love of feasting, dancing, and celebration. Since faeries are believed to be spirits of the earth, many believe that on important days like the fall equinox, the summer solstice, Samhain or All Hallows Eve, were of particular importance to the faery race, and at these times of the year the world of magic became a little more tangible: our world was drawn somehow closer to theirs.

While we today classify June 21st as the First Day of Summer, in ancient times festivals that honored today celebrated the summer solstice as Mid-Summer -- the ancient Summer season began on May Day and ended on August 1st. So today is actually the very height of summer. It begins a time of incessant heat and humidity for many of us, of global warmth, thriving of plants and fruits and vegetables, and today being the longest day of summer, we will have 15 hours of daylight. All across Europe and Scandanavia bonfires were built to celebrate this, the pinnacle of summer and of the earth's miraculous bounty and fertility. And yet today, with more environmental heartache than we've seen in decades, many of us feel hopeless, sad, and disillusioned.

Many of us are asking, what can we do in a time like now? The press says volunteers are not needed to clean the shores of the gulf. Any who are able can of course send money, but where could we send it where it can have the most impact? It's easy to feel helpless on a day like today, even guilty -- after all, when we acknowledge the importance of today, it's a terrible feeling to understand that instead of honoring the earth and its cycles, we are destroying it. But this has been on my mind a great deal. We can't deny this is a tremendous wake-up call. And I think the most important thing we can do, on a day like today, is give the earth our love.

It's easier than it sounds! I'm not talking about meditating, or chanting, or building your own private ritual bonfire under your next-door neighbor's window -- I'm talking about seeking a way in which to make your own footprint lighter. And there are so many ways that we can begin, today, to make a difference. No matter where we live. We only need to understand that each of us does indeed, have the power to make a change.

-How much trash are you putting in the trash can on a daily basis?
-How many plastic bags are you using, both grocery bags and ziplock, for example?
-Are you leaving lights on and electronics plugged in perpetually, when things could get switched off and unplugged?
-How much water are you using for brushing your teeth, washing your dishes, washing your hands and taking your showers? Can you shut off the water while you soap up, or fill up a dishtub part way, rather than letting it run?
-Can you set your air-conditioner at 76 degrees instead of 72?

Recently Eric and I started composting -- we got a pretty silver container with reusable filters from Crate and Barrel, and a $40 black recycled plastic compost bin for outside. Yes, we were late to the eco-party, but I've been amazed at how conscientious it's made me about everything else. It feels so amazing to see it fill up with summer's bounty: Watermelon rinds, local lettuce, summer squash and garlic skins. All of these will mingle with our shredded paper, our eggshells, our pine straw from our big lady pine in the back yard, producing good, sweet soil to nourish our tiny garden of zucchini, tomatoes, and jalapeno peppers. We walk around feeling unplugged and not knowing why. This is a way to plug in, and the more we plug in, the more we can recognize harmful habits and work to improve our relationship to the one thing that sustains us all: our planet. So in celebration of today, think about what change you might be able to make and do something today to put it into action. You'll feel incredible, I promise!

As I was reading up on Midsummer, as often happens these days, I came across something that surprised me. Any of you who read the book will read about this plugging in, and how once we do, we may even begin to get little... feelings about things. These whispers of intuition have become, since my journey, as familiar as my own reflection in the mirror. A big believer in purifying my living space using the ancient method of burning sage, I recently gave my last sage bundle to a friend who was moving out of town and into a new home. I knew she'd use it well, but it made me sad that I had none left, and no place in Charleston to buy more. It occurred to me then that I have sage growing quite well now, in the little herb garden I planted on the side of the house. Why did I need to rely on someone else to sell me dried sage when I could produce my own? Perhaps this came as a whisper. I read up on how to harvest herbs properly, respectfully, when they are to be used for such purposes, and was planning on waiting until the end of the summer to harvest from my plants. But yesterday I kept feeling that I should harvest it now, now, now. So last night at twilight, I knelt in the dirt and clipped three long bundles of the fuzzy green leaves, making sure to leave enough growth for it to regenerate in the next few months. Taking it inside, I bound it with thin, pink yarn from New York State Sheep and hung it in my closet to begin its drying process. My very own sage!

It wasn't until this morning that I read that herbs for sacred and magical purposes have always been gathered on Mid-summer or Mid-summer's Eve (the night before) for centuries. This is because it is believed that plants around this time possess their most intense essence, as this is the day when the sun is at its most powerful. So there you go. Perhaps today, if nothing else, is a good day to begin listening to that inner-voice, and see what surprises it gives you!

Attached are some pics I took moments ago of the entrance to our backyard with our gardening shed, my teeny herb garden, and just so we know the faeries are paying attention -- a dragon fly that sat oddly still, letting me snap its photo to say happy mid-summer to us all! Can you spot it perched on the unopened Canna Lily?

With hopes for an enchanted evening of your own,
Signe

For my Mother on my Birthday

2010-06-13T14:05:00.000-04:00

I had forgotten about this poem until my sister sent me the most incredible birthday gift -- she had a line from this etched onto a beautiful bracelet. It made me dig through my computer files to find the whole thing. The first half of this poem is a bit private, and heart-breakingly sad, about the death of my uncle Tom, and my mother taking our cousin, Murielle, to live with us. Murielle is a wonder, a delight to all of us who get the unmitigated pleasure of watching her grow up.

But this half of the poem is for my mother.

The Guardian

II). Fall Creek, Ithaca NY

The water rushes under the bridge

crayfish scuttle from underneath the rocks

they learn to play

again

each teaching the other

this is what it means to be a child

twice by plan, thrice by divine intervention

I watched you, when I was with God

open the blinds and make the coffee

raise two girls

until you could raise me

one generation to the next

alert even at night

when all the children are sleeping

safe in the peach colored house on the corner

where the lilies bloom and tuck themselves away

and the back porch cradles the echoes of a family

who are soaked into the pores of the wood.

I left my tears on the shingles of the roof

under the stars by the window

where she stretches, and kicks in her sleep.

I whisper from here,

to the guardian

when the Victorian house is creaking and settling at night

when everything is less bearable

you carry us all on your slender spine

your magic still lingers in the lining of our bellies

in the width of our hearts

you taught us to open

one for the other

and so we are

just a circle of you

stretching through the distance

ageless through the ages

a memory stamped into the earth

we will whisper

we were here

we were loved

and you birthed us all

the ancient mystic roots itself through you

the mother

the guardian

the woman who sometimes forgets she teaches us all

in how to believe.

The Bunny Messenger

2010-06-11T12:37:00.000-04:00

This morning I walked into the sun room to spot a rabbit under the bird feeder. Willoughby the cat has never seen a rabbit, so knowing this would be a particularly compelling development to her Friday morning ritual, I bent down slowly and scooped her up so she could see it, the rabbit eyeing us the whole time. I was amazed at how long its front legs were -- long and graceful -- and how even though we were separated by a wall of screen and glass, I could see its little heart pounding against its chest. It took a moment for Willoughby's eyes to lock on the subject of my fascination, but I could tell the moment it happened -- her tail began to swish violently as she spotted this: her first rabbit.

After a while, the rabbit got used to us, and we to it, and I put Willy gently down on the floor so she could stare on ground level, and soon the rabbit had relaxed enough to stretch out, lying so prone under the myrtle that I wondered if it couldn't be injured. I was plotting how I might best approach it to get it into a carrier to take to the vet when I realized, no! It was just... hanging out. I couldn't help but wonder: surely something special must happen when you get to begin your day by spotting a rabbit!

And sure enough, I logged into my email this morning to find this lovely, lovely quote from author Sharman Apt Russell, author of a thought-provoking, explorative book on pantheism:

“Do fairies exist? There is a certain innocence in the belief that they do and a certain magic in that innocence. With considerable humor and flair, Signe Pike asks us to return to the awe and innocence we knew as children. It's a worthwhile journey.”

—Sharman Apt Russell, author of Standing in the Light: My Life as a Pantheist

So on this muggy summer friday, I might not have been thinking on this stuff when I rolled out of bed, but I have a lot to be thankful for. A long-limbed brown rabbit, a sweetly curious black kitten, the way wilderness sneaks into our lives, if we only take the time to notice it, and the encouragement of another writer, perhaps the greatest gift of all.

I hope everyone can find many moments to be grateful for this weekend!

Dreaming of My Father

2010-06-08T15:06:00.000-04:00

When I dream about my father, gone now four years and nearly five months to the day, I wake up forgetting sometimes, that he is still gone. Four and a half years seems like a moment ago. People always say that, and I would agree that it's true.

When I dream about Dad we sometimes end up at a waterfall that is all the waterfalls in Ithaca, put together. Their bits and pieces and personalities blended into a whole that I think must somehow be the Divine Gorge. It is, at one end, far away in the countryside. And at the other, it is nestled in the steep hills of College Town. I wake up feeling fresh and cold, like I have just gone for a swim. Like I have really just seen his face, or heard his voice, or smelled the clean spicy smell of his favorite T-shirt. Because the waterfall is perfect.
And I wonder if it is his.

Perfect Charleston Morning

2010-05-27T11:32:00.000-04:00

This morning finds me in downtown Charleston to work on a freelance assignment, and with some time to kill, I set up camp in my new favorite mobile office, "Baked" on East Bay Street. Light and airy with huge windows, deliciously evil sweets and piping hot cappuccino's, there is a long wooden table in the side room with a gorgeous old book case and a fat stack of Charleston City Papers. Stress seems to melt away under the cool of the air-conditioning ducts while the caffeine goes about its business. No matter how much writing or editing I do, taking on a new project never fails to give me butterflies. Each project is a unique beast, some beautiful, some masterful, some twisted and broken, some stilted and sad, some regretfully, beyond hope.

But sitting here, just the sight of the palmettos against the blue sky and old brick buildings makes me feel that the world is bigger. Charleston is older, and she has seen worse, she whispers, with a wink. Wars, famine, plague, revolutions, revolts, I know she means. My butterflies are laughable, in light of these things, in light of the footprints left on these streets. If every city has a certain pull, and I believe they all do, I wonder how Charleston chooses her residents. New York has a power buzz that's difficult to ignore. New York vibrates with energy, possibility, and the sheer throngs of humanity all there to carve out their own private piece of the American dream. Sticking out toward the ocean and surrounded by two rivers, I chuckle sometimes to note the sheer geographic similarities between the two places -- my old home and my new one. Charleston too, is a peninsula, with ocean, surrounded by rivers. And here in Charleston, people are carving out their dreams too -- but they involve, I think, a good restaurant, a watercolor of the beach, a community pool, home owners fees, maybe a plot of land big enough to plant a few vegetables, and floating in the silty ocean.

Sitting here I watch fellow residents milling on the street, I watch the tourists pass by with their hawaiian shirts and straw hats, watch a sparrow climb the spiky innards of a palmetto tree, and I wait, hoping one of these perfect Charleston mornings, she'll reveal to me at last why she has called me here.

The Wonderful, wonderful David Yeadon

2010-04-23T13:01:00.001-04:00

Eric and I tied the knot this past weekend, which was so magical in and of itself... we keep looking down at our left ring fingers in wonderment, then we hold our hand up to the other's face and say, "Ha! Married!"

I was pulling myself from my week of dreaminess thinking that things could not possibly get any better, when I received this note from author David Yeadon about Faery Tale. Named by the Bloomsbury Review as "One of our best travel writers," he is an award winning writer and photographer who has written many, many wild, beautiful, and powerful books about being a traveler in the world, about living and observing. I had fallen in love with his writing when I read AT THE EDGE OF IRELAND, which chronicled a year he spent living on Ireland's Beara Peninsula, and I have since gone back to dip into his backlist, as quickly as I can get my hands on them. I so badly wanted him to read my memoir, and at the same time I thought, "There is no way in hell that David Yeadon is going to want to read a book about faeries." But he read it. And he understood it and me inherently -- it's not just a book about faeries. It's a book about life.

I was bowled over by his note -- instead of writing an obligatory few sentences, he wrote me a commentary. If you're interested to read it, I've posted it below.

FAERY TALE by Signe Pike — A commentary by David Yeadon

I really didn’t want to be entranced. I didn’t want to be enticed into yet another world of strange fantasy-beings. But with Signe Pike’s ‘Faery Tale’—I was. Honestly.
I resisted of course but then found myself being bewitched both by Pike’s silken, sensitive prose and the encouraging realization that she once shared my dismissive skepticism. She admits in numerous situations that despite her deep desire to discover the faery world, her brain “began the process of doing what it does best—denying.”

So I let down my guard and allowed her charming tales of mystical experiences in other-worldly places buoy me along on delightfully adventurous journeys with a host of colorful characters (real folk and fairies). She certainly chose—or was led to—some of the Celtic world’s most mystical places including England’s Glastonbury (Avalon), the Isle of Man, the wild western region of Ireland, the Isle of Skye in the Scottish highlands, and the unique faery-filled community of Findhorn. And, in all her journeys, her own emerging enlightenment engendered far deeper relationships with her sister, her friends, and her late father.

Pike’s open-eyed explorations and deliberate vulnerability remind me of my own years of zany wanderings and adventure travel book writing when, from time to time, I wondered if I was being guided by invisible presences and forces. Certainly, in the numerous instances of ‘near death’ events, I was convinced that my mortality was being protected by much more than pure luck. Faeries? Maybe. There are so many words to describe such secretive entitities. The key to allowing them into our own world is summed up succinctly by Pike—“I refused to give up hope…all I had to do was believe.”

So thank you Signe Pike for making us all more aware of the hidden dimensions of our earthly existence—for ‘helping people believe in magic again”—and for showing us how such spirit world magic can transform the perceptions of our own lives.
-- David Yeadon

Early Praise for Faery Tale

2010-03-31T13:23:00.000-04:00

I'm so delighted to share these truly sweet and lovely quotes from three ladies whose writing I admire and respect above all else.

Truly, I think I've had some help from the faeries:

"An honest, funny, and deeply moving story of a dreamy realist who eventually discovers that there is magic in the simple act of believing. Anyone who's ever seen something curious out of the corner of their eye, heard the million whispers of trees, or checked under their bed looking for more than dust bunnies will thrill to Signe Pike's FAERY TALE. She not only embarks on a mythic globetrot; she navigates the rocky shoals of love and loss in her own life as well."
- Cathy Alter, author of Up for Renewal: What Magazines Taught Me About Love, Loss, and Starting Over

“Faery Tale is more than just a refreshing romp among waterfalls, searching for that shining, hidden race of spirit-people. It’s Signe Pike’s answer to a grief-sick heart. Whether you use the words faith or faeries, God or magic, Pike’s thirst for belief is both moving and inspiring. She has a wild willingness to reach through her grief and abandon herself to life’s adventures, and I felt so lucky to be along on her journey. Reading this book is like remembering that elusive magic of childhood. Pike went looking for enchantment; well she found it, and she left its light and gracious footprints across every page of this delightful book.”
- Jeanine Cummins, bestselling author of A Rip in Heaven and The Outside Boy

"A beautiful book, wide open and shimmering, full of enchantment, pain and sweetness. Signe Pike is warm, open, funny, thoughtful, vulnerable, wise -- reading her is like sitting over tea or around a fire with your best girlfriend, listening to her wildest tales. Faery Tale transports the reader to mist-covered mountains and magical, sun-filled glens scattered with faery offerings. But more than that: it makes the world seem better, fresher, and lovelier than it was before." - Carolyn Turgeon, author of Godmother: The Secret Cinderella Story

A Seder on the Fourth Floor of an Old House in Charleston

2010-03-30T11:04:00.000-04:00

Last night Eric and I attended a Seder to commence Passover, the first that I've been to as an adult. Jeff and Lis are fellow former New York City dwellers, though Jeff, much like Eric, grew up calling Charleston home. Located only a few blocks from Colonial Lake, I could see the gray blue waters of the harbor glinting in the early evening light as we pulled up in front of a massive historical home. There's something about downtown Charleston that steals my breath in any light, rain or shine, and last night, buffeted under the dark threat of storm clouds, the colors were even more vivid: deep pink red buds, lush green grass, and the towering teal house with black shutters that Lis and Jeff call home. Bottle of Chianti in hand, we wound our way along the old wooden porch to a set of stairs that headed up on the outside of the house, climbing the steep and narrow steps to the fourth floor. I wondered how many apartments the old beauty had been carved into -- given its sheer size and domination of the block, there was of course no doubt that this home was once a bustling, single-family home, complete with cooks, maids, slaves.

Inside the kitchen was warm with the smell of short-ribs and matzah ball soup, Lis moving about the apartment in a green party dress with orange heels and their new dog, Einstein, a shaggy white and brown mop, trotting around at her feet.
"People tell us that our apartment used to be the slave quarters," Jeff explained as he poured us two glasses of red wine. More guests arrived and at last when we settled, elbow to elbow around the table, Liz passed around stapled pamphlets she'd made - the Haggadah - which contained all the readings for the night and doubled as a nice "how-to" for guests like us, attending their first real Seder.

Honoring the Jews flight from slavery out of Egypt and into freedom, the meal itself tells their tale. In the Haggadah I read that Egypt in Hebrew is "Mitzrayim," which literally translates to "places of constriction and limitation." In this way, Mitzrayim comes to represent not just a geographic location, but also a metaphor for all the enslavements we meet in life. And so Passover becomes a time to awaken to places in our lives where we are stuck, so we might release ourselves from the slavery of old patterns, beliefs, and ways of being that hold us back from personal growth. It was beautiful, unexpected, and imbued the night with a new meaning for me: I have not always found religion to be so easily relatable.

As we sipped wine and took turns reading from the Haggadah, I was captivated by the concept again and again:

"Like the Jews in Egypt, we are not simply enslaved by others. It is not only a Pharaoh outside who keeps us in bondage. We carry Pharaoh within ourselves. We seek to remember that we hold the keys to our slavery and our freedom. We keep ourselves stuck with limiting thoughts like, 'I can't,' 'I'm not ready yet,' and 'I don't deserve better.' We are the slaves and we are the enslavers. Only we can set ourselves free."

Sitting there under the sloped roof of the dining room, lightning flashed over the churches and steeples of the Holy City, and a table filled with people from all faiths cracked Matzah between their fingers even as we ate in the slave quarters of an early 19th century home. These are the things that I love about Charleston. These are the things that I love about our friends.

That night was a full moon, and I woke after 3 am to the sound of a dog barking. Looking out the bedroom window I saw two dogs, a black one and a white one, lit in the moonlight. The fat black dog was only about eight feet from the house, and they were both facing me, looking inside almost, as his bark echoed through the dark early morning. They must have stayed there for nearly an hour, facing our bedroom window and barking, and it was an eerie ending to a magical evening. What their connection could have been, if any, baffles me. But then again, maybe it was, in its own way, a call to freedom as well.

Two dogs, half wild, running in the night, baying their freedom under the light of the moon.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

2010-03-15T11:27:00.003-04:00

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

With thanks to Lea Beresford, for sending me a poem on a Monday.

History is a Fairy Tale

2010-01-14T11:26:00.003-05:00

Recently I’ve been thinking a great deal about our plight here on this planet. So many people walking around lost and wounded, with no sense of the beauty and incredible richness that surrounds them called “life.” This was the reason I felt so stirred to abandon every day life in a search for something more – because I was lost, wandering the streets of Manhattan in a zombie-like work-a-day way. Melancholy, disconnected, trapped…. hopeless. And the worst part is, where there is hope, where there is help, we turn our faces away. This hope is in understanding our stories.

“Fairy tales” are at the very root of our lives and yet we constantly dismiss them. When our children come to us wide-eyed and wild we tell them “it’s only a story.” We dismiss writers imaginings as “fiction,” we relegate our magic, mystery, and sense of incredible possibility to the nursery where it becomes outgrown, abandoned. We tell our friends that for them, anything is possible, and yet we fail to believe it for ourselves. We forget that in reality, the story of human existence is nothing but a story – a fairy tale all its own.

Human history.

The stories of what has happened in our span of existence on the historic record are so commonplace, so deeply ingrained in our every day consciousness that we no longer see them for what they are.
We have princesses and queens: Diana, Grace Kelly, Cleopatra, and Boudiccea. We have our magicians and our wizards too, in Galileo, DaVinci, Magellan, and as scholars are uncovering, the not-so-mythical Merlin. We have our villains, too – so many they clog the history books: Nero, Pol Pot, Attila the Hun, Genghis Kahn, Hitler, Stalin, Ivan the Terrible, Napoleon, the list goes on. We have our heroes: Joan of Arc, Gandhi, Rob Roy, Harriet Tubman, Abe Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Sitting Bull, Theodore Roosevelt.

When we begin to read and study our history books, we learn that human kind is capable of the most beautiful creations, the most compassionate tenderness, and the most horrible atrocities – acts of violence so dark that they would be banned even from any director’s cut, boycotted by readers or movie-goers. And it is these conflicting forces that are nothing less than the genetic code for the fantasy stories we learn about as children.

When you look at our human story and understand the impact of this, the line between fiction and non-fiction will blur. Everything is informed by our reality. Nobody is writing in a vacuum – it’s impossible. We are working with the human brain, and all we know is our own story.

But the value comes truly, when we can step beyond our daily lives and gain the ability to see things in this light. What we tell we remember. What we don’t tell is lost. And somewhere in the middle, where these two things meet, is the truth of what our world really was, the truth of what really took place -- it begins to make you realize that we have the power to change our story.

When you can see our existence in this light, you begin to realize that out of any storybook we’ve ever read, truly our own lives can be the most spectacular fairytale of all.

A Faery Happy New Year!

2010-01-04T15:20:00.009-05:00

Yesterday was surprising in so many ways. Firstly, it was cold, and yet... sunny.

This is an anomaly for someone who comes from upstate New York. Our winters are dark, cold, bleak, and relentless. There is a beauty there you learn to love -- the yellow fields of dried wheat, or flattened fields of corn draped in a blanket of winter snow. The masses of ice --frozen water caught in mid-fall, the hardened muddy trails and the hillsides of delicately etched branches, showing dark against an overcast sky.

Here in Charleston the sky was blue as a jay feather, the air biting, the plants that outlasted the freeze the night before basking green in the sunshine. At the bird feeder we had the male and female cardinal, the slate colored juncos, and three nut-hatches flittering in arcs over one another, hungry for the sun-warmed seeds. And then there was me, kneeling at the foot of our glorious river birch in my puffy blue jacket, working on installing my very own, brand new, Faery Tree House. I'll explain...

We spent New Years near Pawley's Island where I came across a fabulous store -- Blair Creek. I was lured in by their sign in the window "Create Your Very Own Faery Garden!" And I thought, "Why, yes! How could my life be complete without a Faery Garden?" Like most people, I'm sure. But this is what happens when you devote your life to writing a non-fiction book about trying to believe in faeries. So of course I had to go in. The trip may be over, but old habits die hard.

Inside I met Butch (yes, really) the co-owner and he showed me around the store -- whole houses for outside made of all "found" materials by artist John Curtis Crawford that really tickle the imagination but totally repel the wallet (at $300.00 or more!) And then my eyes settled on The Tree House Kit. A window, a door, and a chimney, designed to turn any willing back yard tree into a home for your wayward faeries. I bit my lip and forked over my credit card. Happy New Year to me -- I could hardly wait to get back home to get started. There are pages and pages of directions that come with these kits, and while somewhat daunted, I poured through them on the car ride back to Charleston.

1) Determine the tree that would like to be your faery tree house. (With instructions on how to accomplish this.)
2) Put said tree to sleep using enclosed "Tree Sleeping Spell" using included frighteningly real looking "magic wand."
3) once said designated tree is sleeping, drill the necessary holes to mount your door, chimney and window.
4) Wake the tree back up.
5) Leave a thank you for the tree and a welcome gift for (hopeful) habitation of faeries.

So there I was, standing in the puffy coat with the magic wand. To pull a now classic Kate Gosselin "Self-Interview":

"Was I feeling silly?
Yes.
Did I feel like I may have lost my mind?
Yes.
Was it the first time I'd felt this way?
No.
Was that going to stop me?
No.
If I were a tree in my backyard, and someone was going to drill a couple huge screws into me, would I appreciate the courtesy of an attempted sleeping spell?
Mmmm...Yes.
Was I embarrassed that my neighbors were looking at me with unmasked interest?
Yes.
Were they clearly thinking, "There goes the neighborhood?"
Yes.
Did I do it anyway?
Yes.
Am I glad I did it?
Yes."

But actually, what happened was... unexpected and even better.

My neighbor Andrea has two kids, Ian and Zoe, and a lovely mother who comes to visit named Martha, who I'd met on one other occasion. I went over to the fence to wish Andrea a Happy New Year and told her about my backyard project, and that I was a little embarrassed to do it with everyone.. watching. So Andrea gracefully went inside, but not before her mother came over -- a stunning woman with clear blue eyes and pretty silver hair. She stood at the edge of the fence and said,
"Andrea just told me what you were planning on doing, and I wanted to come and tell you that I think it's wonderful. (Said in a Kate Hepburn-like way.)"
"Wow." I said. "Really?"'
"Yes." She said. "I live in a small house in the middle of the woods. Two miles away from the nearest person, miles away from any amenities. And I'll tell you, I don't just believe in faeries, I know they're real. In fact, I have all kinds of spiritual creatures that come to visit my home."
"Really?" I repeated.
"Really." She said.
"Well, in that case," I said, "Maybe I could come and get you all when I'm through, and perhaps you'd like to come over with Ian and Zoe and have a look at it?"
She gave me a formal nod. "That would be wonderful." She paused a beat. "I'll bring something to leave for them too."
(Meaning the faeries.)

So I put the tree to sleep, I sang to it, just like the directions said. Eric helped me drill the holes, we mounted the pieces, and I went over to fetch Ian, Zoe, Andrea and Martha. By the time I reached the door both Ian and Zoe were absolutely beside themselves with excitement to come and see the Faery Tree. They each picked out leaves to put at the base of the tree, and a stick. Zoe had a piece of purple and blue yarn so the faeries could make a coat. Andrea brought a perfectly formed pine cone. I brought a piece of pyrite (faeries like shiny things) and a stone I found on the beach for the tree. And lots and lots of pretty beach shells. As we four kneeled, placing gifts here and there, Martha found her way over.
"Where I live, a lot of the faeries come from the Native Americans who lived on the land for so long." She said to us, and to the tree. "So I brought a few pieces of corn..." she laid them down. "Some cookies for dessert..." she said as she scattered them, "And this piece of lapis." She held up a small bluish stone, cold and round in her fingers. And then she reached out, and she put it in the perfect place: directly over the front door.

Then she said something to Ian and Zoe that really stuck with me. You see, in all this trying to believe, I've read so much, tried so much, and somehow managed to get buried in so much... excess information. I told Ian and Zoe,
"Anytime you want to come over, if you find anything, or make anything that you want to leave for the faeries, you can just come on over and put it here, whether Eric and I are here or not, okay?"
But then Martha said,
"But kids, you don't have to be here to do something nice for the faeries. If one morning you're just getting ready for school, and you look out to the backyard and you think of them, and just wish them well, they would love it. If you're going to sleep at night and saying your prayers, you can think of the faeries and say goodnight too. That's all they need. Just for us to remember them. Just remembering them is enough."

She was right. All the folk tales you can read say faeries are so tricky, faeries are so temperamental, faeries are so demanding, faeries are so dangerous. Faeries must be placated with gifts, food, trinkets.

But in my journey so far, I've never found that to be true. Faeries, whatever they may be, I would say, seem more kind, more loving. Faeries are in the whispers of the trees, the spark of a firefly, the flash of a bird's wing. They are hopefully now utilizing my costly tree house.

But all they really ask for, I am willing to bet, is that somebody remember them, and that in remembering them with a thought, or a gesture, we are remembering and honoring the earth, the greatest thing that humans, and faeries, have in common.

Wishing you a bright and beautiful New Year,
Signe

Writing Away: The Creative Cooperative

2009-10-22T02:15:00.007-04:00

I'm very honored to be here in Breckenridge, Colorado at one of Cicily Janus's Writing Away Retreats.

Cicily called to invite me to join her staff just as I was leaving Plume last Spring. She explained that this was an opportunity for writers to get unprecedented access to publishing professionals, and I was intrigued. My first thought was, why would any one want me now? I can't buy your manuscript. I can't represent your project. No longer an acquisitions editor, no desire to agent, I am of no material use. It's a bizarre feeling, going from being mobbed in elevators at writing conferences, to being able to go to the ladies room in absolute peace and quiet. And at first I didn't know what to make of it all. But I did know one thing: leaving Penguin was an unfortunate necessity. And in fact, I had tried to stay. All I wanted was the opportunity to continue doing what I was doing, and if I couldn't do it on Penguin's terms, I knew I had to do it on my own. So I started Pike Literary Services. I don't have a web page, and I don't publicize. And I have found my work within my own company has been so incredibly rewarding, I sometimes want to pinch myself. I am still helping writers, in whatever way I can, achieve their dreams. And I truly feel that is something I can be proud of.

Standing in the huge kitchen tonight, talking with a writer, she mentioned that publishing professionals have a mystique about them, an inaccessibility. She's right. And to anyone outside the business it seems totally silly. I mean, we're talking about a profession here, where if you're a straight man, and you're say.... a 7 on a scale from 1 -10 in the looks department, you enter book publishing and instantly become a 9. Er, okay. 9.5. It's almost as though each single guy is running their own private Rock of Love special.

For the most part, women rule publishing, and some are icon worthy, and some are less so, but everyone is intelligent, that's a given. So I can understand. I told her, "Sometimes, at least from my perspective, other writers are inaccessible too."

The problem is, a mystique, an inaccessibility is sometimes necessary in today's world.

I mean, I had a man pitch me a book at my father's funeral. I don't really know what's lower than that. When it comes to publishing conferences and editors, it's just like life: there's always that metaphorical one asshole who ruins it for everybody. And after you've been through that, or even far less, the damage is done. Or so we think.

But when you're in a house, in the middle of the mountains of Colorado, with a group of 12 writers who are all there to work, to share, to improve, it can break down some walls. It can help me remember who I am and what I came for.

I say, Yes, it's still important to have a professionalism. That means, I tell her, perhaps it's an important thing that these people have a mystic, an inaccessibility, because they are, in effect, gate-keepers. And the gate-keepers have earned their rights, and they deserve to be respected. This means, don't pass them your hand written notes at the lunch table. Don't pitch them something that isn't to their tastes -- you have their bio's. I don't say this in words, because these days, we have lost our subtlety, and I think that's a shame. I say them in other ways, and I know that she begins to understand. These days we just can't take a hint. We need someone to get it out in the open, communicate it clearly! If you don't say it, they will have no idea what you mean!

I think that's sad. And now that I've finally learned about the value of subtlety, I do try to use it. Allegory is nice, that works, or should. I try that sometimes, and I wonder -- could this be working? Someone said today, "It's so true! We've lost our subtlety. Someone should write a book about it." I say, that wouldn't be very subtle, now, would it?

The point is, of course "we" -- if I can call myself a we, which is debatable -- are approachable. We are, as you know, human. And this environment is set up so that we can all have an opportunity to see the humanity in each other. We can talk over lunch and dinner and wine and coffee, and the editor from Harper Collins can pee in peace. Publishing is lucky that so many writers want to write, and one nice thing about publishing, is that I haven't met a single publishing professional who takes that for granted. We know it. Writers sustain us. We need them, and they need us, but any professional relationship necessitates boundaries. We are responsible for respecting these boundaries on both sides, and it is important, in my mind, that we do not expect a professionalism that we ourselves do not exhibit. The rules are simple, the game is involving, but at the end of it, we each shall either contribute or not contribute. What has really mattered was the creative sharing that has taken place during that process. And this is, wonderfully, what this retreat seeks to capitalize on -- exchanges. And nourishing our creative selves, as well as our minds, and our bodies. It's certainly a unique retreat model, and one that deserve propagating, but with care. If there is a balance that is kept, and mutual respect maintained, it can only flourish, and ideas and projects can only prosper, should they bear the correct ingredients.

This is all to say.... art is art. And here, some of us are writers, and some of us are publishers, and some of us are readers, and we are all connected by a common thread -- the love, the admiration, the passion, the permanence of the written word. And so for a week we become an island. And in that week, each day is precious. Each day we learn about drive, human kindness, and human creativity, and to be a part of that, now that could be a lifetime achievement.

Whispers and Murmurings

2009-08-04T02:24:00.002-04:00

Tonight Suzanne said:

Your journey may be over, but honey, a whole new journey has just begun.

Saying Goodbye

2009-06-11T15:01:00.003-04:00

Half of my biking crew left yesterday morning, and for the first time on this trip, I realized a great risk of this journey. John, Huw, Joe, Mark and Sam. It was so incredibly unexpected, this feeling that struck me, is there anything I can write that could come close to expressing it?

How do you explain, for example, meeting a group of people who after only a few days truly feel like family?
Or the feeling of being so incredibly adopted that you feel completely comfortable, and at home with a group of people who only days before were complete strangers? What about trying to imagine your trip without them?

God, it's so cheesy to try and explain, but it would include all of these things, I suppose: Laughs, lots of laughs, so much good, really good conversation, so many stories told, pool playing, walks into town, cramming into cabs to get back, watching the TT and getting schooled in bike racing, all the fabulous shared suppertimes and breakfasts, and then there was of course, trussing me up for my first bike ride around the mountain... I felt like I was being fussed about by 7 father hens.

They're probably all blushing. The British aren't so mushy like us Americans, or more specifically, like me.

Right. So yesterday morning when John knocked on my door and announced, "Sig, we're leaving..." I flew out of bed in my pajamas and swung open the door, squinting to see them without my glasses on, all a-panic. Leaving? Already? I was wanting to get up to have breakfast with them before they were gone.... I was hoping to get some more time.... but I'd overslept.

John and I exchanged a quick hug, but all the rest of the boys were geared up already, helmets, gloves, glasses, on their bikes. I didn't have my shoes on and I couldn't see very far. I had been thinking much of the night before about what I wanted to say to them... how I could possibly express everything so they would really understand.

I had been trying it out in my head. Thank you for being so awesome, thank you for the full English breakfasts and the laughs and the... making me feel like family.

I wanted to tell them that I would never forget any of them, and that I wished I could be a part of their clan forever. That they were one of the best bunches of fellows I'd ever met in my life, and the world was a better off place with them on it.
Instead I said, "Bye, bye... have a safe journey... bye..." with a smile. John mounted his bike and they drove off. I closed the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed, and I actually had a little cry. I felt a huge sense of loss at not being able to tell them all the things I had wanted to say, but maybe some things, I realized, sometimes don't need saying.

Wol and Big John and Paul were still here until Saturday, which is, incidentally, my birthday. I was so glad to have them here for a few more days, and at the same time, the thought of having to feel this terrible feeling twice was just horrible.

I think I've heard people say that sometimes when you travel, you have to be careful not too get attached. That's the risk I'd discovered, and I might sound silly, but it took me completely unawares. But to those people, I would like to say, that I think that is absolute garbage. In fact, if you find any people worth really getting attached to, absolutely do it. Because you are among the very lucky.

I may have to say goodbye, but maybe goodbye doesn't always mean farewell.

Isle of Man

2009-06-07T12:42:00.004-04:00

I had very specifically tried to avoid coming to Isle of Man during the week or more of mayhem known as "The T.T." (or Tourist's Trophy). This was a time when the usual serenity and remote stillness of this fair isle in the middle of the Irish Sea was shattered by the arrival of thousands of European men on loud, stinky motorbikes, in what I came to learn is one of the most famous motorbike races in all the world. To me, of course, hoping to take long quiet walks in the woods in search of our fair friends, the fact that my trip here had coincided with the TT Race was nearly catastrophic.

But just like in the search for the invisible, or even an imaginary world of faeries, nothing is ever as it seems.
The bikers, particularly eight of them here at the centre where I am staying, have become my only friends here near Ramsey, on the Isle of Man.
I am getting so homesick, and they cheer me by dragging me out to the nearby pubs, refusing to take my money in exchange for the beers, insisting on feeding me perfectly seasoned chicken curry and pasta bolognaise from their vast steaming pots of communally cooked supper, and even I think, allowing me to not lose so badly when playing them in games of pool.

During the days, however, I am left to my own devices. I am here on this island which is only 32 miles long and at its widest, 15 miles across. But I feel lost and alone. Up to this point, since I'd left London, things had been happening in leaps and bounds. Every where I went the right people to talk to had been practically falling into my lap. I had tremendous interviews and some truly unbelievable experiences, which I'm working out how to include in the book. But here, even though it seemed so clear that this was exactly where I needed to be, nothing is happening, contacts are hard to find, even a freaking telephone is hard to find.

Yesterday I set out on my first hike up a glen since arriving here. The stories of faerie haunted glens in Manx folklore were so numerous, and I was nearly convinced I would feel something, or hear something, or maybe even see something, that would lead me to believe I was led here for a reason. But aside from a very creepy coniferous forest that I tiptoed my way through, there was nothing. It was certainly a beautiful hike, but nothing. I guess this is when all of the doubt begins creeping in.
I start thinking, and disbelieving, and wondering...
What am I doing here? Why did I choose to come here for so long, so far away from all of my friends, my family, and Eric? What am I even looking for that I couldn't find in my own backyard, or even, heaven forbid, within my own self?

Even the Manx people have forgotten their legends, and when asked they all regurgitate the same story about the faerie bridge in town, and how all the bikers and bus drivers salute the bridge when crossing. No one really knows why, and besides, they're thinking about taking down all the trinkets people leave there, as they're beginning to get in the way.
Can't they see that people are leaving trinkets there because they are desperate to feel a tie to something, a tie to their own histories, their heritage, to the land, to a magical world that now lies permanently shrouded from our increasingly modern world? It's very discouraging, and today my heart feels very heavy indeed.

But there are my biker friends to consider, and I have promised, in lieu of being able to find any other way to possibly thank them for their friendship over the past few days, that tonight I will make dinner for them. And here, groceries are a town away, and the races are today, so the roads are closed, some of them even for walking. I will go and wait at the electric tram stop, a quaint wooden train that chugs slowly from town to town, more or less on a schedule, but only if you can sufficiently flag it down as it approaches. Sometimes it seems, they think you are just waving.

In the Beginning, there was Confusion, Personal Misdirection, and a General Lack of Preparedness

2009-05-23T11:50:00.006-04:00

PART TWO:

I turned and headed into the Heath, my feet following a thin dirt trail until the path exploded into a field of knee high Queen Ann's Lace and long lush green grasses, blowing softly in the breeze. It nearly took my breath away. But my fear of the unknown was palpable. Where did the path lead? And if I got this lost attempting to follow simple directions, how on earth would I find my way back through an 800-acre park? Some of the trails of the Heath, I imagined, followed horse paths from hundreds of years ago, when anyone traveling to London did so on horseback. So they would, eventually, lead out and through -- but through to where? I only knew that one, small section of town nearest to Becky and Tony's house. Finding their street again from some far fangeled direction would prove nearly impossible. And yet, how could I not explore, now that I was here?

Breathing in the sweet smell, I found my way to a wooden bench under the shade of some tall trees, right at the edge of the field. Above me the leaves were dappled with sunlight, and I realized, in that moment, that it was 1:15 in the afternoon and I was finally in England. From my perch on the bench I could still see the path that led to the road, but I could at least sit here for a bit and write in my journal, without feeling like a complete and utter chicken. I dug out my pen and the small notebook my friend Laura had so artfully made for me, and began to write. I hadn't been writing more than a few minutes when I heard a snuffling sound coming up the path toward me, and turned to find a floppy eared black and white speckled spaniel bounding toward me.

"Hi Puppy!" I crooned, massaging his velvety face in my hands. This dog belonged on calendars, it was so cute. I smiled at the woman following him.

"I love your dog," I murmured, as he jumped onto the bench next to me and proceeded to crawl into my lap.
"Oh, Harry, no!" The woman laughed.
"It's okay, I don't mind." I reassured her. She looked to be in her late 40's with dark brown hair and surprisingly warm brown eyes. "Could I ask you," I ventured, "How to get to the street in Hampstead, the one with all the shops?"
She looked at me, surprised. "Oh, you're American!"
"Yes," I said, slightly embarrassed.
"How wonderful!" She exclaimed, setting me immediately at ease. As we began to talk, she not only gave me directions, she told me about all the many points of interest that were within walking distance, including a stunning view over all of London that could be seen from just across the road. "Actually," she said, glancing at her cell phone, "I've got a few minutes. Would you like me to take you over there and show you?"

"Uh, yes! That would be incredible, thank you!" It was bound to be a little awkward, but I knew I was lucking out big time. As we made our way to the traffic circle, she turned to me. "I'm Alison, by the way." she said, giving me a wave.
"I'm Signe." We went through my usual spelling... no, it's actually S-I-G-N-E. Mmmhmmmm. It's Scandanavian.... yes, like Sidney but with a "g."
And before I knew it, my new friend Alison, and her adorable puppy Harry, had invited me to come along for their daily walk through the Heath. I followed her along the path, wondering at my good fortune, as we made our way down a shady pathway that led deep into a forest. Not only was this a bizarre turn of events (I can't tell you the last time I accompanied a total stranger on what promised to be at least an hour long walk while living in New York City.) but Alison was fascinating. Five years earlier, she'd had a call to life when all her pets died in the course of one week, and on the last day of the week, her husband of 17 years came home and announced that he was leaving her -- he'd been having an affair. The next day she found out she had a life-threatening tumor that needed to be removed by a surgery that required her to be cut open from just below her breasts all the way down to her uterus. She'd not only survived all of those things, but she has vowed from that day on to live her life to the fullest.

"I spent 17 years married to a man that on my wedding day, I had second thoughts about. And look what happened. His behavior completely changed, after we were married, he became so dictatorial and controlling, and for 17 years I stayed in that marriage for the sake of my children. Never again!" She said, with a triumphant finger raised. "Now I live for myself, and my kids. I do what I want, when I want to." She smiled. "So what brings you to England, Signe with a 'g'?" She asked.
I don't know what it was about Alison, but I found myself spilling my very guts out to her. I told her about my father passing away three years ago, about how hard it was to not know the hows or the whys, about how much I missed him. About meeting Eric, getting engaged, leaving New York together, and about the book. I told her about my desire to find out the truth behind the existence of faeries. "Because," I told her, "I wasn't raised with any religion. And I find it really hard to believe in God. I mean, no one else in my family ever has. So in a roundabout way, if I can discover what else there is out there, if I can discover whether or not there really might be some invisible, magical world where creatures like faeries really do exist, maybe it will somehow make losing my father.... " I trailed off, not really knowing how to finish. I had been so fabulous, so far, at convincing everyone -- my literary agent, the editor who acquired the book, that there was a strong connection between losing my father and the desire to want to find something magical. But now that I was here, now that I was actually here, saying it, I suddenly didn't have a clue what one thing meant to the other.

She looked at me for a long moment, with a slightly amused look, as if we were playing a game of chess, and she. the chess master, was about to sweep in with one simple move, that would change the course of the game forever. When she finally spoke, it was rather softly.

"Well really," She said simply, "It's entirely about trust. You're searching and trying to teach yourself how to trust again. That's where the real magic lies. And to find it, you've got to trust again. "

In the Beginning, there was Confusion, Personal Misdirection, and a General Lack of Preparedness

2009-05-21T18:08:00.012-04:00

PART ONE:

In retrospect, I may have taken on a little too much.

But as it was, within a time period of no more than eight weeks I had quit my job, packed up my apartment, moved a 14-hours drive from Manhattan, unpacked my apartment, decorated a house, shopped for a roof estimate, shopped for a car, started a freelance business, and nailed down a wedding venue to host about 150 people near some natural body of water. The result being, I had no time or opportunity to plan one of the most important trips of my life: a trip to find out the truth behind the existence of faeries.

At this point, I don't know how I could possibly catch you up on what had put me on an airplane, flying across the Atlantic ocean in search of a supposed winged creature that most adults have ceased to believe exists. So I'm afraid I'll have to be terribly annoying and suggest you read the book when it comes out next May, in which I promise I explain everything, down to the Mexican troll I may or may not have seen in an outdoor bathroom in the middle of the night. But for now I can only tell you that on Monday May 18th, I found myself on a plane, shooting over the Atlantic ocean with dimmed cabin lighting and a choice of either gluey pasta or gluey ginger chicken, which would be landing in London at 7:00 AM Tuesday morning. My original plan seemed like a good one: for two nights I was staying with a pair of brilliant authors in their guest room in North West London -- one of whom, Rebecca Campbell, I'd been lucky enough to edit during my time at Ballantine Books, and the other, her husband, Anthony McGowan, a fantastically talented writer of both YA books and adult thrillers. From there, after two brief nights, I was going to head into Dartmoor National Park, or perhaps down to Cornwall, before heading over to Devon England on Sunday to meet the magical, mythical Brian Froud and his incredibly talented wife Wendy.

Now I've gotten ahead of myself.

But what I've already discovered is that here, everything is different. And sometimes, even when you try to end up somewhere, you end up someplace else, but it is exactly where you need to be. My first morning in West Hampstead, I looked up directions online to visit Hampstead Heath, a 790-acre park that Becky mentioned was quite beautiful. And knit my brow in confusion as I read the directions through. They might have well said, "Wind your way up the hill, when after a certain point, the hill will slope and then rise again. Make a slight left and then your first right, but not the immediate right, as the road splits, the third right, that's really more of a veering than anything..." and so on. I knocked on Tony's office door and told him about my dilemma. How could a place that was only about 15 minutes away be so hard to get to? He began to give me his own directions, which were, regretfully, equally vague. Seeing my utter bewilderment, he smiled and said, "How about a nice day of shopping in the Hampstead town stores instead? It's reaaaallly easy to get to."

I was disappointed to be missing the park, but the directions Tony gave me to town seemed beautifully straight forward, and I set off with confidence. The streets that go uphill toward Hampstead are lined with tall stone walls bursting with color -- shiny green ivy, purple and pink and yellow flowers. Behind the walls peeked grand homes disguised as quaint English cottages, with old fashioned paned windows and secret gardens buzzing with life. I felt the welcome stretch in my legs as I walked up hill, repeating Tony's directions over and over in my head. I was going a great job, surprisingly -- everything looked just as he said it would, and I knew I was on the right track.

I just knew... eventually... if I continued climbing this steep road... and oh no, here's a branching... I don't remember there being a branching in the road... left or right? Left or right? Um....

My stomach began to tug with hunger but I pressed on. I'd find an adorable little coffee shop just at the top of this never-ending hill, I just knew it. A coffee and a snack would be so perfect, and I'll have one very shortly, I promised myself. At a total and utter loss, I resorted to following people who seemed to be walking with some sort of purpose. Well, wouldn't everyone be going to Hampstead to get coffee and a snack? Or perhaps to do a bit of shopping? Acquire some new candles or perhaps a small container of "b-AH-sil" or maybe some "oreg-AH-ano." I managed to stay about 30 yards behind a young woman wearing workout pants and a pony tail, who kept turning around to look at me, as if I was following her. At long last, we reached a traffic circle at what felt like the top of the world.

Fantastic. Now where the hell am I? I looked around as small cars with large license plates zoomed by me at mock speed. There were no shops.... only houses. Damn it! Suddenly I noticed that to my left there was a beautiful grassy green space.
As I walked past, I stopped to read the sign.

"WELCOME TO HAMPSTEAD HEATH: You are here."

They say that when you go walking in the woods in the United Kingdom, one must be careful not to get "pixie led," meaning, the pixies, who are apparently a terribly tricksy bunch who delight in toying with mortals, will jumble your head, leading you this way and that, until you end up exactly where they want you to be. And exactly where you don't want to be. It seemed that, for reasons yet unknown, I was meant to be in the park, for the park certainly found me -- despite my very best efforts.