The Light Over Yonder


There’s a guardian faerie living in my yard. It guards the gate to an unknown and perfect place of everything in its place and all things perfectly lined up and nothing bad ever happens. Of course this place doesn’t really exist; we just like to think it does. It hovers just out of reach, just out of sight, just far enough away to keep me real, keep me dreaming. The faerie watching over the place of sublimity must be very old and very wise. Wise enough to know that I need to know but I don’t really need to go. It sort of teases me, drawing me in to the fantasy, making me believe everything can be good. Yet it has never actually let me in.
Every single day I drive down my narrow, rolling and slightly bumpy lane. Every single day, as I crest the last small hill, I see the light. Not see the light , but actually see the light. No matter the weather or how bright or where in the sky the sun hangs, the light in this very spot is always, always different than any other light-anywhere.
It lands softly on the road next to the place in my yard I call over yonder , resonating from behind the ditch trees, originating from amongst the willows. It’s not just a different color, a sort of milky opalescent blue, but it seems to be….alive. It has an energy, a calming energy that does something to me the instant I enter its glow. But in the tiny moment before I pass through the light, I look. I look to the West, through the ditch trees and into the willows. I want so badly to catch a glimpse of the faerie, to know what it actually looks like.
I imagine it crouching in the shade of the big black crooked willow, holding a collection of wild grass blades and a few buttercup stems. Its tiny body, sparkling with drops of everlasting dew, skin the color of freshly fallen snow in the winter or vigorously dancing aspen leaves in summer, is thin yet strong and poised to jump into hiding at any moment. It has large upward pointed ears, always listening, and huge globe shaped eyes, always seeing. If I stop, keep the car running, open the window and stop breathing it might not notice me, hear me. I might see it loping across the opening through the tall grass and into a new hiding place; coming to perch on a low branch of the birch tree. The excitement and anticipation of seeing this elusive being of mystery is short lived, however. The scene is always the same: a grassy hollow surrounded by old and crooked willows and tall white paper birch trees. But still, all of over yonder is aglow with its essence.
It can’t be seen, but it is there. And I know why it’s there, what it’s protecting, who it’s protecting. If caught and stopped, the mystery and wonder would also be also be stopped, and the dream of an impossible place would vanish. Maybe that’s why I see only the light as proof of it and not the thing itself. Life with no chaos, no wrong, no hurt, life without conflict or rejection or failure, life with only perfection would be a boring and lifeless existence. So my resident guardian faerie, simply by being there, keeps me from losing myself in both my actuality and my vagary.

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