I’m not sure what shape I make in the world any more.
I say this to the North Sea, my home sea, the sea that knows of my birth, as I offer it dark tobacco and sweet wine and sour song.
I am a resemblance of where I have been, but I do not know what I am becoming.
The sea in response sighs and offers up another hagstone.
All the better to see with?
On my return to the beloved cottage, in a place few know the existence of, I squat at the threshold again, mesmerised by why the ants have been leaving me moth wings on the doorstep every day for over a month now. Even though I destroy their homes every time I weed the path.
Do ants understand mourning better than humans ever can?
I confuse the new moon with the full and the full with the new.
I am struck not by the ripening wheat in the field I walk, but the border of wildflower that prefers to die in summer rather than in winter.
What if I just stay here a while?
Can I just stay here a while?
I whisper this in the early hours of hush, hesitant of the answer that might arise from the last star before dawn.
And Now?
I clutch tightly to my dad’s false teeth, the ones I stole from the hospital, the ones that have become my intimate travel companion, as we forge a new language neither of us know how to explain.
Or Now?
I teeter on the cliff edge, a cat not a dog, holding onto my skirt tails/tales, as I throw words into the air and watch them float away wondering which will return when the winds change direction once again.
Here is where I shall stay, just for a little while.
Ash from the fire as my bed.
Grave dirt under my fingernails as my sustenance.
Waiting to see what may emerge as the gods and the fates weave my tapestry into being.
Something will return, but it is unclear as yet when or what guise that might be in.
And so,
It is with love from this space before the emergence that I write for you -
whatever and however and whoever shape you yourself may be.
Elizabeth Jane Lovely, daughter of James Thomas Lovely, granddaughter of Elsie May Lovely, great granddaugher of Alfred Edwin and Betsy Esther Lovely.

A Bluebeardian inspired tale? Perhaps, but not what you might think…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here.

Unless otherwise stated, all the tales you might meet in this space are original. That is to say, met through the doorway of imagination.

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Illustration by Aubrey Beardsley

JAMES THOMAS LOVELY
1949 - 2026

The Farmer and the Boggart

The Green Mist

Jack’s Day Out at Horncastle Fair

The Tiddy People

The Giant and The Dwarf

The Imprisoned Moon

The Fool and his New Brains

(Tales of Old Lincolnshire by Adrian Gray)

One of the first (new to me) tales I ever encountered as an Intentional Story-Carrier has been giving me a little poke in the side that it too would like to be a part of this thing called an experiment of 2026…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here.

Unless otherwise stated, all the tales you might meet in this space are original. That is to say, met through the doorway of imagination.

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Amy from Pixabay

a reading of Direction of the Road, a short story written by Ursula K. Le Guin…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Percy James Billinghurst

The King, when he was ever so slightly younger than he is this day, with a twinkling for mischief in his eyes, decided to announce -

PINK MYTH DAY

‘After all’ he said, ‘the False World tries to declare upon us Blue Mondays and Black Fridays, why can we not ourselves have a Pink Myth Day?’

“Today’ he declared ‘is Pink Myth Day’

His one decree to this was that Pink Myth Day could never be the same day of the week or date of the month each year. That the announcement of that years Pink Myth Day must always take people by surprise.

And so the following year, it would randomly be some other time within the Peopledom’s Thirteen Moon Cycle. For a previous decree had declared that both the notion of a King (or Queen) -dom, and a year that did not contain all the moons, were further wasted impositions of the False World.

Once the announcement was trumpeted from the highest turrets - Today is Pink Myth Day’ - that the day was indeed one of Pink Myths, every single person would have to stop what they were doing in that instant and proceed to tell each other (not limited to humans of course), the most wondrous, marvellous, legendary, tale that came upon them in that very moment of stoppedness.

The Peoples of the Peopledom were urged to get there ears close to the ground, to peer intently at the skies, to sidle nearer to the majestic trunks of old trees.
For everyone in the Peopledom knew that there is only ever one true creator of myths. The very land itself.

Today, this 1st day of May, of the year 2026, the 14th day of the fifth lunation, it has been decided, is PINK MYTH DAY - what tale sits on your tongue tasting of old and noble things just waiting to nestle in a waiting ear?

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

The keeper of the castle records, simply known as Tom Foolery, was sent out to seek an audience with the illusive Jackalope. I managed to sneak access to the audio before it (and T. Foolery) was locked up in the vaults, never to be heard or seen again…

‘An increasingly rare sight, the herbivorous jackalope (lepus cornutus, or “horned hare”) lives in small, isolated colonies throughout the wild regions of the Southwest. They are believed to be a hybrid descendant of a desert jackrabbit (lepus alleni, or “antelope jackrabbit”) and an extinct species of pygmy-deer (capromeryx minor, or “diminutive pronghorn”). This elusive crepuscular animal has very keen nightsight and exceptional hearing, and thus, is seldom seen…Its strange vocalizations can sometimes be heard on moonlit nights during their mating season, and at this time, males become very aggressive. This temperament has lead to the vernacular name “warrior rabbit”. related to the rasselbock of Germany, and the dahu des plaines of France, the Western jackalope can run at speeds up to 45 miles per hour. Coat coloration can vary from white or tan to tawny-brown, with horns up to nine inches across, two to three points are common. Its average weight is ten to twelve pounds, both sexes have horns, and standing erect, males can reach 24”, females up to 18”. With populations on the decline, little is known about their mating habits, and captive breeding programs have so far failed. A small colony of roughly 20 individuals lives high in the remote Panamint Mountain Range of Death Valley [located to the West of the Castle beyond the Woods], and one aging solitary buck has been photographed foraging near Darwin Falls.’
Panamint Springs Resort postcard

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Mo from Pixabay

Interesting things can happen when we drop through the cracks of and in a story, like meeting curious creatures that move about in the shadows with a serious intent of purpose…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by aniszewskas from Pixabay

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay

Our next drop-between-the-cracks-of-the-story centres around the most ordinary of moments. Although I first met this tale in 2019, it nudged at me to be included as a part of the experimentation for 2026. I suspect all the love in the air over the weekend might have had something to do with it…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay

In another of the non-linear tellings for 2026 (of what once was, and what is now, and what shall be) the inspiration came from someone I used to see in my local park when I lived in Bath, England. It has been given an extra nudge to come sit by you this full moon by the squirrels here at Crow Cottage. I fancy it is them, and not the mice, that are scurring about and knocking at the windows in the wee hours…

Calling Forth the Ash and the Bones is a Year and a Day long non-linear mythic experimentation with story. It is an emergent weaving of tales branching out from the death of a King and an Old Oak Tree that knows.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, you can do so here

with love
Elizabeth Jane

Image by Anastasia Beloychuk from Pixabay

As we stay in these sort-of-but-possibly-not-really beginning places of the Calling Forth cycle, another piece from the archive stepped forward to become entangled in the year-and-a-day of Ash and Bones. This time, a never before recorded ‘Seeking out of the Bone Mother’. In 2016/2017, as part of a year long Ritual Art Laboratory, I wrote every single night for a year, in that twilight place when the inner critic is snoring lightly and the candle guttering to a dim glow. The one rule I gave myself was to not read any except the last line from the previous days writing and to write at least one page no matter the circumstance. I recommend it as a practice, in fact I have just finished another cycle of Journalling with the Edge of Slumber for my PhD studies. What you will listen to now became a part of that 2016/2017 weaving and asked to be included in this mythic experimentation for 2026.
Be careful what you wish for…

with love
Elizabeth Jane

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, thank you, you can do so here

Image by Sunrise from Pixabay

Continuing from the ending-beginning place of the Winter Solstice, the second part of our mythic weaving comes again from 2016, a piece invoked for a Bard of Bath soiree. Re-recorded in the newness of 2026 as I sat by the hearth fire while the frost twinkled in the full moon’s light, and the stars sang of magicks…

with love
Elizabeth Jane

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, thank you, you can do so here

Image by Gordon Johnson

In October 2016, I was given the story you are about to hear, knowing it was a part of something much bigger. I have told this story in a darkened basement, in the midst of a Moroccan market place, to hedgedwellers and skyflyers, and now, dear Substackers, to you. It is an ending of sorts, but also a beginning. For the next year and a day, because of course, all the best of witchery is often held within the spell of one year and one day, we will excavate a little more of this bigger story. It may appear for us in the middle of the night, or when the noon day sun shines through a dusty window. The moon might have wandered out of our sight, or be at its brightest. For who can know the way of a thing that lives outside of human linear time. With this in mind, the fragments of tale that arrive will not be in the expected beginning-middle-end format but as and when that particular part wishes to make itself known. Beseeches and offerings will, of course be made, to the One who first gave me the story all those years ago and we can only hold our collective breaths that she will answer and grant us the priveledge of more.
So, join me as we begin, with this Winter Solstice New Moon, the cycle that will call forth the ash and bone of the mythic…

with love
Elizabeth

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, thank you, you can do so here

Image by Warwick Goble

Dear Moon

Oh, how I adore thee!

As you sit with such majestic grace on high.

When I am lost

All I need do is turn my gaze

Up to your gentle

Benevolent smile

And I know

Know I am held

Seen

Loved

Cared for.

In this moment

Everything

Absolutely everything

Can be alright.

You teach me of boldness,

Of gathering the masculine arrogance of the Sun

Reflecting it back in a softer

Less harsh way

Yet no less the powerful for it.

In your hidden face

You give me courage to reach deep

Deep into my own womb wisdom

To retreat to the cave

So the speech of the ancestors may once more find voice.

Your beauty and benignity have held me steady my whole life.

Where would we be without you dear Moon?

We place our human flaws at your door

For good and for ill,

Still you show up for us

Still you silently guide us

You only ever reveal the truth of what we are.

In your fullness you show us our darkness

In your darkness you offer up the space for us to shine more brightly.

Each and every month you invite us

Gently lay a hand upon our hearts

Say it is okay.

Like the Moon

I can begin anew.

There is always

Always

The room to start again.

I know these words barely touch on all you share with us

My mind can only speak

Of what sits on the surface

For this and for how we connect to the dark side

The always unseen side

Communicates in an ancient Songline

Not seen with the human eye but

Felt by the Soul of All.

My love always

E

x

Image by Rosy Bad Homburg Germany from Pixabay

I confess to an immence affection and sense of protection for Rosebud. I first met him, and his pals when I worked intentionally with story in a shamanic way during a training programme with the wonderful Jonathan Horwitz and Zara Walderback in Sweden several years ago (they have an online version of working with story in connection with nature available as a self-study here).
Rosebud came and curled up next to me again over the last couple of days, and I just knew I couldn’t try to keep him safe in the confines of a laptop memory store any longer.
Please treat him with tenderness, for I feel he is the very best of things - a gentle soul with great courage.

If you would like to sponsor a story, thank you, thank you, you can do so here
With love
Elizabeth Jane of the Faerytale Apothecary

halloween:

harehair:

haunted:

hawthorn:

her:

the hidden moon
Given it is a New Moon Eclipse, perhaps there ought to be a story of a Hidden Sun, but I have long realised, I don’t get to make the rules when it comes to what wants to move in and through and out of me.
The Hidden or Buried or Dead (this one I still haven’t figured out) Moon is a traditional folk tale unique to Lincolnshire - never ever let anyone tell you otherwise. It suddenly felt a little bit important to share with you the recording of it that I made at the Summer Solstice. It might have been last year, or the year before. Somehow my mind is reluctant to clarify. Regardless, it was captured as I sat in my most beloved place by Crow Cottage, having wandered through the Gap in the Old Stone Wall here in Rutland (don’t look for it on a map, you probably won’t find it), speaking the story with the peoples that live hereabouts.
I dedicate it to our grandmothers, wherever they now reside, to their fortitude and grit, for how they have shown up in the world, and all that had to be discarded so we might begin the possibility of our own lives deep, deep, deep in their bellies.

the eclipse prophecy of the crystal ball
The buzz of awakenings
God is trying to sell you something
rapid movement, a collective
beating of drums, Arms bandaged
around one another.
A wonderful web that holds us all,
myscelium; connected fungus.
Stories keep a connection to the
past. The Giants who are always
hungry.
During the full blood moon eclipse,
Community and unity, coming
together to share our magic and
love with the world,
A deep breath,
Let yourself run like the panther,
the quest of the Lake Dragon,
begins with the moon sinking
into the water,
fire energy, dragon rises,
never let the fear of loss keep you
from leaning all the way in,
open,
the earth will rise again
open.

At Oxford Storytelling Festival, I had the great good fortune of creating with a handful of extraodinary strangers in a workshop facilitated by the astounding and outstanding Ragabond Theatre. What began as a simple exercise in reflecting on our weekend, stirred in alchemising and potentising ways, sung in a chant and danced around our (health and safety conscious) fire. The above is the spell that emerged. I encourage you put on a party outfit, find a saucepan to bang, roar out the words to the sun, and see what happens.
Special thanks to my fellow magic weavers for this time of spontaneous ceremony, and for the permission to share what we created together here with you.

brimstone and treacle - a medicinal tonic
I am excited to announce I am opening up my books again for a small number of one-to-one online Hearth Tending sessions. Personalised and intimate, private and held, we will dive together to find your Story Medicine. Navigating pathways of old legends, wondrous tales and new stories waiting to be conjured, together we track and gather what is whispering aloud to offer guidance and support for you at this time. I draw on my shamanic counselling, art & drama therapy, deep rest, breathwork, dream-walking, ceremonial, way of council, focusing and of course storytelling training so I may act as Sacred Witness for your Heart Hearth. The amount and length of the sessions are tailored to your individual needs. Sometimes you may journey out to seek the stories and at others I will act as carrier on your behalf. With long established and proven ingredients we weave together a nourishing recipe of your very own. These sessions are also being offered for Fledgling Tellers to support them in connecting with the stories that wish to be spoken by them at this time, and as a Waymarker to other teachings and humans that can guide first flights.
If you are wishing for an Ally on your Spirit Path, these sessions work wonderfully for that too.
Or maybe you are simply Story Curious? If so, marvellous!
The Tonics are offered on a sliding scale of £55, £66, £77, £88, £99, £111.

The Buried Moon Illustration by John D. Batten

On a gorgeous evening in May, I sat by a well-tended fire with a group of people I didn’t really know as stories were told in the best of possible ways. It had been a long day and I was all ready to go snuggle up in my tent, rising from my seat to do so, when one name caught my ears. Coyote. My behind found itself plonked firmly back into the chair as my body leaned forward eager to be engulfed by the story that emerged from Joseph Heywood’s lips. The next day, on seeing Coyote tattooed on my inner right arm, Joseph insisted it was a story I had to carry with me from that day onwards. Just as he has carried it after being gifted it himself by an Indigenous Elder (my apologies for not knowing who this Elder was). It is a traveller kind of story I think, one that likes to meet new people. Peer into them, through them, with them. What you are about to listen to is not a verbatim speaking of the story Joseph told that night by the fire. It is how it moved through me one morning. Next time, I suspect, it will have something different to tell us all. I had tried to sit with this story for the last few months but it always felt to be there, yet at a distance. As if sat at the far corner of the room from me, though willing to share space, not willing to converse. I wasn’t sure how it wanted to use my voice, or if it was even possible that the two of us might be companions. As much as I delighted in its company, I wasn’t sure if it was happy with mine. But then it suddenly arrived. ‘Now’ the story said ‘now we are good to go.’ It proceeded to pour through me in the way you are about to hear. Taking me as much by surprise as it might take you, for I have the suspicion that this particular Coyote is not done with either of us yet. We shall just have to wait and see…

with love
Elizabeth Jane Lovely

On a spontaneous whim one rainy Saturday morning, Tom began to read a storybook to me through whatsapp voice notes. A storybook that he had not quite got round to reading before. You know the type - you skim the illustrations, grab it on impulse, then on returning home it sits patiently in the ‘waiting pile’, sighing to itself at the wonder the book knows it contains within its interior. And oh my, what a storybook it was! I argued with it, questioned it, took offence to it and peered dubiously at it. I also marvelled at it, gasped with awe at it, surrendered with delight to it and ultimately fell into a spellbound swoon. How could I not want to share such a tale and such a teller with you! So, here for your listening pleasure is the story of Eemook as read by Tom…

Eemook’s story is from The Sea Lion written by master storyteller Ken Kesey and illustrated by Neal Waldman, published in 1991. It is described by the publishers as an original tale that takes its inspiration from the Indigenous Peoples of the Pacific Northwest. The Peoples include the Chinook, Salish, Coast Salish, Kwakwaka’wakw and the Tlingit. More information can be found at https://www.nativehistory.info/pacific-northwest-native-tribes-culture/

And as an extra bonus I wanted to share a stunning short film by Jules Guerin entitle A Shaman’s Tale - https://julesguerin.tv/a-shamans-tale

Tom lives in a small cottage in the Bay Area of California where he designs and maintains gnome friendly gardens that incorporate native plants, which are also friendly toward birds and bees. He is a part time astrologer who loves viewing the night sky from the desert. His recent interest in giving voice to story has emerged along with a rekindled interest in song. It has been helped along from having had the events of his life lovingly mirrored back to him as story, and the gentle encouragement of his uncensored voice.
Find out more about his interactions with the plant people at tegardendesign.com

With love
Elizabeth of the Faerytale Apothecary