Through the Firefly Forest: K is for Kiss
On facing the humbleness of our creations...
This letter is part of my Through the Firefly Forest: The Creative Journey series, where I look at the gifts and challenges of the creative life, one alphabet letter at a time. Come travel through the dangerous and enchanted Firefly Forest with me, starting at A is for Apple Tree...
It’s said that kisses linger longer in the Firefly Forest. Rather like an enchanted goblet that holds mist or wishes or clouds, the forest holds onto kisses from long ago.
Meaning that a pair of lovers who once lay hidden in a forbidden bluebell grove or beneath a weeping willow might leave traces of their affection behind for centuries. They walk away from the woodlands, they age, they die — but their kisses do not. Which is why forest travellers are often surprised when they receive a sudden peck on the lips, delivered by a tiny, invisible passer-by on wings.
Sweet and unseen, kisses flutter through the forest like honeysuckle butterflies. Some are passionate, some coquettish, others shy. Sometimes they hang together in clusters like fireflies, meaning that those who unwittingly pass through a swarm might find themselves quite dizzy and flustered.
Are these tales of enchanted kisses true? You find out for yourself one day while dozing by a stream near that old bridge know as Sweetheart Pass, a blade of sheep’s sorrel in your mouth.
At first the kiss pecks you on the nose, stirring you from your nap. Next you feel it on your forehead, then your neck. When it reaches your lips you spit out the sorrel in surprise and sit up. You think that the kiss has gone, then realise that it’s simply resting on the battered felt travelling hat beside you. The faint, steady beating of wings gives it away. You lie back down and listen for a while, soothed by it.
When it’s time to move on, you lift the invisible kiss from off your hat and, on impulse, slip it into your breast pocket. It doesn’t seem to mind and remains there for days, travelling with you. You enjoy the slight feeling of warmth against your chest yet at the same time, you sense a restlessness in the kiss, an urgency. And this urgency disturbs your relaxed ambling, it niggles and chafes like a blister on your toe. What does the kiss want?
At twilight one evening you are passing a cool green lily pond when you feel the kiss fluttering hard against your ribcage in agitation. When you pause, the fluttering stops. You wonder if it wants to linger by the pond to take in the peace and scenery. You’re not in any rush, so why not? You sit down on a tree stump, while the kiss flutters out of your pocket and lands on the rim of your hat.
A solitary frog occupies the pond — a plump, solemn, black-eyed fellow sitting on a lily leaf. He gazes into the distance, croaking a rough, mournful song. The kiss stirs, fluttering impatiently, so you take off your hat and give it a shake.
‘Go on then’ you say, wondering what’s causing the excitement. You feel the brush of wings against your face as it hovers in mid-air, then leaves you. You’re able to trace its journey by the slight ripple of wingbeats as it passes over the pond, stopping right beside the frog. You watch as the little green creature jerks in surprise, then freezes, struck into silence. The frog has been kissed.
For a moment or two, it doesn’t move. Then its long pink tongue darts out, swallowing the invisible winged thing in one gulp. The frog’s body lights up golden as a torch, as if it has eaten a firefly. Around it, all the lily pads turn amber. Then it blinks and resumes its song.
Yet it’s not the same song at all — it is a new tune entirely. From the throat of the little creature comes an eerie and ethereal melody, more haunting than any cathedral music. You sit motionless, even after darkness has fallen on the pond, while the golden frog continues to sing long into the night.
It is a song so beautiful that you’re sure even the stars, busy with the business of infinity, are pausing above to listen…
It’s easy for us to fear that our creative works might not amount to much more than a rough, solitary ribbit croaked out on the lonely lily pad of art. Yet if we are devoted to our modest songs, then magic might happen — we might transform them into swooping arias. That is because acceptance — the sweetest of all kisses — has its own strange alchemy, turning frogs into princes and frog songs into operas. And even when it doesn’t, it’s still worthwhile to be a bold little creature croaking stoically on a lily pad (whether the stars deign to listen or not).
The Tinderbox is written by a freelance writer busy croaking away on her own lily pad. If you’d like to buy me a coffee, it would mean a lot.
To my regular readers — I know, it’s been forever since I updated The Tinderbox! Believe it or not, I got stuck for an entire year on what ‘K’ should be. But then the kiss and the frog appeared last night and it wrote itself. Sometimes, you just have to be patient.