The Talking Mushroom and the Little Red Fox

Posted on July 10, 2014 by AM Roselli

Dear Friends,
There once lived a little red fox-

fox

Her auburn fur edged with gold, flickered in the sunlight whenever she ran about the forest. She was smart and lovely, yet she was unhappy. Though she could do all things in perfect fox-form, she dreamt of being a kangaroo. Daily she practiced graceful long jumps. The little red fox could even leap much higher than her older brothers. But this amazing athletic prowess, didn’t satiate her bounding appetite. She wanted to be a kangaroo. One misty morning with dew saturating her delicate toes, the little red fox came upon a purple-spotted mushroom. It was a purple-spotted fungus, the likes of which she’d never seen.

“My dear child,” bubbled the purple-spotted mushroom from his damp earthen throne, “you are unhappy.”

“Yes,” replied the little fox, not even a bit concerned she was talking to a purple-spotted fungus.

“I can make you happy,” whispered the mushroom low, as not to share his secret.

“How?” asked the little red fox, unable to contain her excitement.

“One bite of me and your dream will come true.”

The little red fox wasted not a moment, she chomped on the purple-spotted mushroom. When she awoke next morning, she could not push up on her strong front paws as she done all the previous days of her life. She rolled to her side, then much to her surprise, sprang up. So forceful was the leap, she soared fifty feet across the forest floor. The little red fox landed by a large puddle that had collected between gnarly tree roots and rock. She caught her reflection in the shimmering water. Her wish had been granted – her dream realized. Instead of being jubilant for the change, she sobbed mightily. She was neither a little red fox nor a complete kangaroo…

There was once a snowman who wished he was a fox-

Snow Fox

Hope you enjoyed my little fable.
Thank you and goodnight. May you dream of being content in your own skin…

(Fox Up Close: Prisma, 2000, Foxroo: acrylic on canvas, 1999, Snowman with Fox Mask: Prisma, two days ago)

Hitchhikers Are Not Wolves

Posted on June 24, 2014 by AM Roselli

Dear Friends,
Though I’m done with subbing for the year, I drove my kids to school this morning. They generally ride the bus, unless they present a convincing plea. The delicate daughter has perfected the art of pleading. This morning’s plea began last night. She had the Chemistry Regents today and was concerned about AM cafeteria crowding…. The big son’s eighth-grade graduation was also today.

After the AM school drop off, I merrily made my way back home. I was thinking about what to wear for the “Recognition Ceremony” and was hoping I plucked everything in need of plucking. Not fully concentrating, I had to pull my giant vehicle left to avoid a gent walking roadside. If Nair and tweezers hadn’t been invented, we might be related. He was unkempt in appearance. He wore a cap which concealed his eyes. He was quite thin and his shoulders were slumped, but he held his fist erect. His thumb was up and my head was down. Why? Every time I pass a hitchhiker, I picture Stephen King. Then I think – this person is not a wolf…

I often brag how tough I am. My inner-tomboy would whomp anyone bringing discomfort to my loved ones. Why does the little girl in me say, ‘keep driving….’ when she sees a thumb up. I feel tremendous guilt passing hitchhikers by, but I continue to do so. Maybe if the times were different, maybe. Hitchhikers are not wolves…hitchhikers are not wolves…

Thank you and goodnight. May your dreams be protected by Sweet Lobo of Moon Clan.

(This is a detail of a 5′ x 5′ oil painting on canvas, I think I painted this wolf about 6 years ago)

Locked Holy Doors and Worn Tombstones

Posted on June 22, 2014 by AM Roselli

Dear Friends,
This afternoon the giant husband and I did some weekend running around. On the way home, we passed by a lovely old, shingle-sided church.

By appearances, it hadn’t held a congregation in quite some time. The front door was locked and bolted – a sad sight for a house where one is supposed to find solace and prayer. The building might even be for sale – sadder still…

Adjoining this historic structure was an old graveyard.

Many of the stones, some going back to the 1700’s, had served hard time. Some had sprouted lichens.

Still others surfaces were so worn the names and dates were no longer readable.

Some stones rested on one another for support, clinging to the last vestiges of their earthen anchors.

There was a beautiful tree, its powerful branches watching over and protecting its wards.

It continues cherishing thousands of secrets and keeping whispers safe.

Over the years, I’ve passed by many houses of worship. Their doors locked when services are not underway. I’ve passed by ancient cemeteries too, some a bit neglected.
In times of real need, we alone must bow our heads to dream of hope, pray for peace and hold onto our loved ones as long as possible on this earth…

This post is dedicated to Phyllis Rose who lost her battle with cancer on Friday night. My mom told me of Phyllis’s passing. She was 53. I hadn’t seen Phyllis Rose since I was in my teens. On Friday night, I was worrying about getting the grocery shopping done…life is…
Thank you and goodnight. May your dreams be peaceful and your wishes all come true…