The adventures of Thistle and Honey 1
The Ritual
~feel free to breathe along~
The pale light of the moon slips through the bare branches, casting a soft glow across the garden, where Thistle sits at its center. It’s the end of winter but not quite spring, so nothing is blooming just yet. With her journal resting on her knee, her pen in hand, she vigorously writes her release. Every trauma, every ache, every negative thought and mistake. They pour out of her in a stream. Like a vomiting of emotion, her body feeling lighter with every stroke of the pen.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Tears smudge the ink blurring her vision.
breathe in
breathe out
Finally, she feels emptied, as if nothing else in her is left to hurt. It’s a strange sensation, but it was the intention all along… to let the pain go.
Tearing out her tear-stained pages, she quickly folds them. No point in going over them again and again with the hope of finding something different. It was what it was, and now she’s letting go. With her folded pages in hand, she closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
Wiggling her toes, feeling the dirt beneath her, shifting around her feet. The chill of the evening breeze, blowing through her thick knit sweater.
Thump
Thump
Thump
The beat of her heart falls in tune with the pulse of the earth. Grounding her being, providing an anchor to support her in this moment of release.
“It’s time.” Whispers the wind.
Another deep breath. She closes her eyes.
Breathe in
Breathe out
Opening her eyes, Thistle begins digging a small hole in the garden bed before her. A shovel won’t do; she wants to feel this process as much as possible. The cold softening ground gives way and the hole appears. Another deep breath.
breathe in
breathe out
Gently, with reverence, Thistle places the folded papers containing her pain, into the earth. There are no crystals, no herbs, or blood, just a tangible representation of her pain. She scoops her hands and pulls the loose dirt over the paper as a single tear runs down her cheek. It isn’t a tear of pain, but one of freedom, a tear she has always dreamed of shedding.
Breathe in
Breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
“Well, that’s that then.” She whispers into the night.
Thistle stands and gathers her things, taking a moment to stretch tall and let the Full Moon illuminate her face. “This is it.” She says, with a certainty she has never felt before. “This is the start of something new.” Eyes closed, she takes one last deep breath, allowing herself to bask in the connection she shares with the earth and the moon.
breathe in
breathe out
The wind no longer whispers; it hums a lullaby, as Thistle walks back to her cottage. The garden sleeps, the earth holding her secrets. And Thistle, too, sleeps. Lighter, freer, new.
The soft rays of early morning sun stream through the window, cradling her face in golden light.
“Wake up, beautiful Thistle. The garden blooms,” the sun sings softly.
Thistle slowly stirs from her restful sleep, a yawn curling from her lips as she stretches into the day. She feels lighter, lighter than she has in ages, and a gentle smile spreads across her sleepy face.
Then, like a whisper in her bones, she feels it; the garden is calling. She hears the echo again,
“The garden blooms.”
Excitement sparks in her chest. Throwing off her blankets, she dresses quickly. A soft, cream colored fleece sweater and charcoal thermal leggings wrap her in warmth. Sandals finish the look of course; she is a rebel at heart.
Thistle steps toward the door, heart fluttering like the wings of something newly hatched, the call of new life hastening her steps. She throws open the door, and freezes.
The garden looks as barren as it did the night before. Confusion creases her brow as she walks the worn paths, her steps slower now, uncertain.
“Why did the sun sing of blooms?” she wonders aloud.
“There’s… nothing blooming here.”
A breeze gently brushes across her cheek and whispers,
“Turn around.”
She does so, slowly. And there, right where she had buried her pain, is a single, vibrant Belladonna plant. Its dark leaves shimmering with morning dew, and ripe, glossy berries hanging like jewels from its stems. A bloom of beauty born from sorrow. Dangerous, healing, alive.
“How…?” she whispers, when she notices a tiny, fuzzy bottom sticking out of a purple bloom.
Suddenly, a muffled voice calls out,
“A little assistance would be much appreciated.”
Thistle blinks. “Umm…?”
Gently, she pulls back one of the petals, allowing the bee to wiggle free.
The little creature flutters its wings and hovers in front of her face, wings a blur of motion.
“You hear whispers in the wind and songs from the sun, but a talking bee is what throws you?” It shakes its tiny head. “Of course I get the fairy with questionable logic skills.”
Thistle crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.
“To be fair, hearing the whispers and songs of nature isn’t considered logical by most minds either. You talking isn’t illogical, just a surprise.”
The bee tilts her head in agreement. “Fair point.”
“So,” Thistle asks, arms still crossed, “how did you and this plant come to be in my garden?”
She chuckles at her own pun.
The bee hovers with a blank expression.
“Oh yay. A fairy with punny humor,” she deadpans.
Thistle smirks. “Hey, fuzzbutt, you’re welcome to take your fill of the plant and be on your way. A judgmental, anal-retentive bee isn’t exactly my idea of good company either.”
The bee sighs deeply. “Apologies. Physical manifestation takes some adjusting, and I can get a little... grumpy.”
Thistle blinks. “Physical manifestation?”
“Yes,” the bee says with a resigned buzz. “You performed a ritual of release, and that called me into being.”
The air between them seems to still as thistle tries to form thought.
“I’m Honey,” she adds. “I’m here to aid you in adjusting to your new reality.”
Thank you so much for reading my first attempt at a legit story with actual characters! I’m a poet at heart, and I hope that still shines through here. I would love and appreciate any notes you may have for me!
Find part 2 Here!
The adventures of Thistle and Honey 2
Thistle doesn’t respond right away. She stands in the quiet morning light, trying to wrap her mind around the statement she just heard… from a bee.
This is beautiful 😍 I found myself breathing as commanded. It's also just so relatable for probably every writer. Releasing the pain onto the page.
I love the pacing, there are times when I write in my journal and feel very much like this. Breath in breath out.
I'm happy I finally got around to reading this! It's been in my saved posts for a little bit!