This morning carries a scent I wish I could bottle. The very start of summer. Cut grass. Sweet pine. And something impossible to name — but endlessly comforting. Not long ago, I found myself in the Crystal Palace, where She lives. The one people call the Enchantress, though that word feels too small. Being near her — even in silence — clears the air inside you. As if everything scattered suddenly falls into place.

That feeling returned today. I brewed coffee, added more cinnamon than usual, picked up my favorite pen and a blank page, and stepped into the garden pavilion. A place just for quiet thoughts and loud words. Wrapped in climbing roses, guarding secrets gently.

It’s one of those mornings when a soft kind of sadness lingers. Not about what happened. Not about what didn’t. Just a creative ache — the kind that needs to be felt through the fingertips, shaped into images, and written down before it slips away. If you know that state, you know it completely.

The fairytale came easily. It had already happened, it seems, and was only waiting for the page to appear. When it was done, I exhaled — the kind of breath you take after something real. The smile that appeared while writing never left. It's still with me now, and I plan to let it stay.

The garden near the new house is wild — not neglected, but waiting. No restoration here. A beginning. Today I’ll sow the first seeds. Let them rest in sunlight and prepare to bloom — in the garden and in me. I placed the story, now folded in an envelope, into a basket made of corn leaves and wandered toward Joy Meadow. That tender haze of creativity still clung to my thoughts as my feet carried me gently across the bridge.

First, I slipped the envelope into the House of Inspiration and was handed a generous pouch in return. The keeper of the house, who had long known I write fairytales, beamed when she saw me. She’s asked more than once that I bring them here — says this place attracts those who come searching for magic, and they've been waiting for stories like these. I used to keep mine in pretty notebooks, written only for myself. But something shifted after I left the Crystal Palace. I no longer tucked them away. I offered them. Stories that crossed from the quiet world of imagination into this one — to find the person they were always meant for. We, the ones who create, often forget that our gift is meant to be shared. Passed on. Received. Answered. Creativity isn't meant to sit in a drawer. It is a bird that must fly. It’s only truly beautiful when it soars.

Written by the Storyteller once upon a time

https://shelestlesa.com/

This morning carries a scent I wish I could bottle. The very start of summer. Cut grass. Sweet pine. And something impossible to name — but endlessly comforting. Not long ago, I found myself in the Crystal Palace, where She lives. The one people call the Enchantress, though that word feels too small. Being near her — even in silence — clears the air inside you. As if everything scattered suddenly falls into place.

That feeling returned today. I brewed coffee, added more cinnamon than usual, picked up my favorite pen and a blank page, and stepped into the garden pavilion. A place just for quiet thoughts and loud words. Wrapped in climbing roses, guarding secrets gently.

It’s one of those mornings when a soft kind of sadness lingers. Not about what happened. Not about what didn’t. Just a creative ache — the kind that needs to be felt through the fingertips, shaped into images, and written down before it slips away. If you know that state, you know it completely.

The fairytale came easily. It had already happened, it seems, and was only waiting for the page to appear. When it was done, I exhaled — the kind of breath you take after something real. The smile that appeared while writing never left. It's still with me now, and I plan to let it stay.

The garden near the new house is wild — not neglected, but waiting. No restoration here. A beginning. Today I’ll sow the first seeds. Let them rest in sunlight and prepare to bloom — in the garden and in me. I placed the story, now folded in an envelope, into a basket made of corn leaves and wandered toward Joy Meadow. That tender haze of creativity still clung to my thoughts as my feet carried me gently across the bridge.

First, I slipped the envelope into the House of Inspiration and was handed a generous pouch in return. The keeper of the house, who had long known I write fairytales, beamed when she saw me. She’s asked more than once that I bring them here — says this place attracts those who come searching for magic, and they've been waiting for stories like these. I used to keep mine in pretty notebooks, written only for myself. But something shifted after I left the Crystal Palace. I no longer tucked them away. I offered them. Stories that crossed from the quiet world of imagination into this one — to find the person they were always meant for. We, the ones who create, often forget that our gift is meant to be shared. Passed on. Received. Answered. Creativity isn't meant to sit in a drawer. It is a bird that must fly. It’s only truly beautiful when it soars.

Written by the Storyteller once upon a time

https://shelestlesa.com/