We sat down with Kate Wolford for a long-distance discussion about—well, about the weather, and how it shapes the stories we tell.
It’s another grim and heartbreaking day in the world. We’ve had too many of these lately, and Friday 13 seems particularly bitter and bitterly pointless. Other, better, more eloquent writers can tell you what’s happening, and give some shape to the numb weariness that overtakes us. Today, we want to celebrate life as usual, the ordinary everyday, boring days when nothing remarkable happens and good days when something hilarious happens.
In honour of the season, here for your reading enjoyment is an eerie Scots ballad by George MacDonald.
John is taking the week off. But don’t worry you can still get your weekly fix of Folklore goodness.
The Mid-autumn festival in China venerates 嫦娥 (Cháng’é), the moon goddess. Like the rituals in last week’s post, the folktales about her reflect the season’s liminality and uncertainties, as she moves from mortality to immortality, from living on earth to living on the moon.
Autumn is a liminal season, and so we turn to festivals that celebrate limninal spaces: summer and winter, birth and death, wandering and belonging, time past and time future, heaven and hell.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been pondering here about stories that speak from wounded, devastated earth—that come out of a place of suffering together with the world we inhabit.
“The world is made of dirt. A rock doesn’t have feelings.” The flaccid man in the documentary glared out of …
As I was working on research for something else entirely, I stumbled upon a collection of Monguor folktales, collected from …