When Grandmother tucked me in a night, I always asked for the Moon Garden story. A tale of a special place where fairies, pixies, sprites gathered underneath the moonglow trees. Pixie lights sparkled, sprites played lively jigs, slow waltzes and wild wind songs. The fairies danced twirling whirling swirling higher and up above the branches of the trees. Then they would sit still for as long as they could, sipping fairy tea and eating sprite scones and pixie biscuits. Then before the moon went down, there would be one more dance session.
I was full of questions: Is the story about you watching the moon garden parties? How do I get invited? When can I go?
Grandmother smiled. “Use your imagination. If you believe, then you will go.”
I requested the story less often. Grandmother asked why. I let all my frustrations and disappointments out: “I tried, I thought about the moon garden, imagined the dances and almost heard the music. But no invitation to the moon garden tea parties. I wished so to go.”
Grandmother patted my hand. “There is no one way to get there. Everyone experiences it differently. But, you made the story your own through your imagination.”
Now I have children of my own. They want to hear the Moon Garden story. I have added some new pieces to the story; the changes I imagined in my mind as a child.
Everyone experiences the Moon Garden differently. I went there every night; I saw my Moon Garden. My children will see their own.