Tinkerbelle

There is a very fine line runs between those who believe, and those who have forgotten how. When I watch our dear friends in the flicker of light from that old television as they watch a favorite old film, I see the line disappear. The old dears become the smooth cheeked young ones with vision for the impossible. All things possible and wonderful color their faces as I see the belief light up their eyes. It's a course world that counts on their fingers the numbers of children and their parents who belief relentlessly ... ah, can you blame the forgetful though such a complex world this now.

It is a rotten thing left untended for far too long, this poison apple disease that has tainted the truth of humans place in the world. They are after all is said, and done, part fairy, part stardust, part dirt and large part imagination. You see the Tribe of Storytellers has passed the gene of believing through the telling, and somehow in the rush to grow up and civilize, industrialize and capitalize the human slowly and steadily diluted that believing gene. Believing in what? Believing in What? Why believing of course in the magic of unimaginable joy simply for the fun of it. The joy of being mundanely alive was rushed to grow bigger, better, richer, cleaner, sweeter than just human-smelling until with the tick of a decade a baby girl could no longer recognize her daddy because he know longer smelled like daddy. We Storytellers though are a hail and hearty stock and we will tell a story as long as we know there is one set of ears who listen.

In the glow of that television light I watched dear Sal's round face drip with tears as she absorbed the masterful telling of a tale of believing. It is one of the simple and available delights that massages the gene in her. Once a long time ago a man, a member of the Storytellers Tribe wrote a story of a boy who believed he would remain a boy forever. Some have said Peter Pan is a man who never grew up. They are part of the folk who have forgotten. Tinkerbelle on the other hand is a tiny bit of fairy dust that waits for folk like that, ready she is to blow the memory back into them so the child in all of them human beings is restored to its magic throne right here on The Planet. Peter Pan is a boy who never stopped believing.