Your Heroine’s Journey: A Digital Fairy Tale

August 19, 2009 · by Joanna Paterson · in

Once upon a time there was a weaver woman.

She spun yarn for a living, weaving words into tapestries of writing: telling stories, making announcements, sharing news.  She spun words that the rulers could use to make speeches and make pronouncements.  She picked up threads from the people running hither and yon outside her door, busily working, busily talking, busily being busy and busily making each other busier as they went.

She kept spinning, and they kept rewarding her for her work.  “More gold!” they cried.  “A bigger office!” they promised.  “You’re so good at spinning, we’ll give you more and more thread,” they declared.  “You’ll soon be spinning for the king himself!”

And so she spun, and wove, and spun and wove.

And although she worked in a castle with windows, the light in her room seemed to fade. It got darker and darker. The yarn piled up. The thread piled up. The tapestries she wove piled up. The gold piled up. Soon she could see nothing but the piles: of yarn, and thread, and tapestries, and gold.

She could no longer see the world outside. All she could hear was the sound of the people, busily running hither and yon, busily being busy. She couldn’t hear the sounds of the city beyond the castle walls. She couldn’t hear the bird song.

Until one day, with arms weary and fingers sore, she decided to stop spinning.  She decided to leave the piles of gold and security of the castle, and head off for a world of adventure instead.

And so she did.

She walked into a magical forest with path upon path of stories, and poems, and photographs.  Linked and interwoven.  She walked into the web.

And she met…

A Stetson Storyteller; a singer whose glass was always half full; a woman who whispered come, come to the Windy City…(and your heroine did, and it was good), a Shakespeare quoting cartoonist; an extraordinary poet-photographer; a sweetly tooting teacher from Hawaii. She met a woman whose smile would split the sky, a red head with a a wicked sense of humour, a humour-filled pink apple, a man who said ‘here, take this stone from my yard’ (and she did), a liquor store owner from Oklahoma who was quoted in the New York Times, a group of joyful, jubilant learners, oh she met a painter who celebrated colour and taught her that art was a living, breathing thing.

She met an artist and writer in Berlin who lived, breathed, modelled confidence and courage; a free thinking spinner who wove wonders on the web, a brain expert who wrote with the fire of a dragon, a photographer whose self-portrait was a pot of pens, oh she encountered a post-apocalyptic author and a most remarkable communicator, a woman the other side of the world who oozed calm, she wove words with an angel, she encountered a superwoman: who made her laugh, then cry, then laugh, then cry, and a singer of songs, she met a spinner of sweet inspiring words, and a book-reading word-crafting yard-spinning writer, an editor with an eagle eye, a mother who told fairy stories about three beautiful young maidens, a writer who splashed with shades of crimson, a woman who made businesses work and told things as they were, an independent traveller, a linguist, a designer, writer, friend, and a young woman who told stories and sang songs through a broken mirror, a free spirit who would swim the coast of an Italian island, a grandmother bursting with life and possibility, a strong woman who taught others to defend themselves, an early bird who sang songs of coffee, hope, and friendship, a man who said someday is now…

Wherever she went she met people who sang: anything is possible.  Who wove tapestries out of their words: linked together with love, and care, and possibility.  Who tried the impossible, and threw lassoos round the stars.

And things started to change.

She started to weave new words and tell new stories: words that breathed fire.  She allowed herself to dream different dreams… and then followed them, to her own magic castle on the bluest of rivers, watching the boats going by.  She let herself love the wonders of the magical world she lived in, and breathe in the sweetness of each morning’s sunrise.

And things were good.

Except.

Except she knew, in her quietest of moments, that something was missing.  She knew there times when the cold wind of loneliness blew around.  When her heart felt heavy and sad.  When she wished for more colour and magic.  For music, dancing and song.

She thought about what she’d learned from her friends.  These people she’d met on her way.  What they’d told her, shown her, taught her.  She thought about her friend the poet-photographer who’d created a magical picture, full of golden stars, an image, a vision of what the future might be.  What possibilities it might hold.

And so she decided to do the same thing.  To create a vision.

She sat one night with pictures and colours and words.  She sat and listened quietly to the whispers of her heart.  She listened and let the whispers breathe, and speak, then sing.  She let them paint the picture of what was missing.  Of what she really wanted.  Daring to dream of what seemed impossible.  The apple that was out of reach.

She dreamed of love, and painted its picture.

A few weeks later, she found him.  He found her.  They found each other.

And it was just as it was in the loveliest of fairy tales.  The seemingly impossible became possible, and real, and true.

They met on the last day of snow, and walked through the sweetest of springs into the promise of summer.

The world seemed to change.

Leaves grew faster, branches curled, birds fluttered, rivers sang, the rain fell in golden showers, wild flowers opened up their petals and smiled.

New paths appeared in front of her. The spring was washed in wonder.

The pages of stories were turned, talking of heroes, and ripple effects, and the time for community.

Journeys were taken, poems were writtten and shared. Colour worked its way into her life, and paintings formed.

In the real world, decisions were made.  The building of a new life.  The finding of a new home.

In the  magical world of the words and the web, she started to play: sharing the wonder of the world you see when you’re paying attention,  singing songs of wild crazy Persian poets, and a summer of love.

And that was when she knew: it was time to tell this story.   This magical tale.  To the singers and writers and artists.  To readers and photographers and friends.  To the people who danced through this magical world of possibility with her, insistent in the belief and the knowledge that we have the power within us to

find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow… without needing the rainbow.

It’s what led her to tell this story, of this particular heroine’s journey, woven into a digital fairy tale.

And so the story ends, as the best stories do, at the start of the next one.  At the beginning of a new chapter.

Moving to a new home, a new life, more Scottish hills, a nearby castle.

To love, and wonder, and a thousand chapters of possibility.

~~~

This fairy tale is a contribution to the group writing project: mission (im)possible.

It’s also a round about way of telling you that I’m moving house again, and starting a new chapter in my life.

And a way of saying thank you, to all of you, including those who I didn’t manage to mention by name, for your support and encouragement to live the life creative, a life rich with possibility.