Being more than two years old now, patterns are developing in Fairy Circle. Each season has its attending fairy rituals, and this is becoming a comfort to me. This is a rhythm established by The Fairies, of The Fairies, and for The Fairies. Of course, we dance the May pole.

We met in a large field under an oak tree beside rolling acres of bright green broom sedge, yesterday. A fourteen foot bamboo pole was planted and fourteen long random strips of fabric, lace, and tulle were tied to the top - an incidental symmetry, it just so happened there were fourteen of us there. Each of us grabbed a beautiful long strip. The mothers moved in one direction, the daughters opposite. And we sang as we moved in our circle.

I was crabby, worried about my husband sick at home. Another mother was sort of panicked to "do it right." Another, enthusiastically shouting, "lets just sing loud and get into it!" Others waiting quietly. Every one, cooperative. The girls, Very Excited. What were we doing? And why?

Just like life, there are layers upon layers of symbolism to discover. I forgot my shoes. I wanted shoes, which is unusual, in and of itself. It took us quite a while to get started, what with all the organising and cooperating, with all the standing on a ladder and passing up strips of fabric. I walked up the field for my shoes and when I started back down, I was shocked. Look how beautiful it is, even unbegun. Look how lovely, how colorful, how much like a house we've built, each bit individual and cohesive at the same time. So much room for more, so perfect as it is. Words from a beloved professor flash through my mind: look for patterns, notice when things work well, look for complex yet loosely bound systems, think how they mirror the universe. Ask yourself and notice, again and again.

Mother Girl Mother Girl Mother Girl Mother Girl Mother Girl Mother Girl Mother Girl

We tried to practice. That did not work so well. So we decided to begin, instead. Over and under, moving in opposite directions, around each other and singing or caterwauling: "Oh mother carry me, a child I will always be, oh mother carry me down to the sea." My friends were before me and after me and we were all moving together. Each impossibly sweet and precious daughter headed toward me, moving under my strong, loving, and protective arm and then, switcherroo, me darting under theirs. They are still little, still need a lot of guidance, they have no idea theirs are the stronger arms. We carry them. They will carry us. Mothers headed toward old age. Daughters who will be mothers. Everyone with a different destination, individually working on a unified goal, going to the same place.

Fairy circle is silly. And so precious. I never expected it to feel like God. It happened alone, in a quiet field. No one recorded it on film. No one observed. Everyone was in participation. Everyone, important. The girls, most important of all, freshest, innocent, careless. My own girl, so thrilled and happy. We drove home connected, as by a filament, to each other, a larger group, patterns in nature, and what is good.