“On the floor beside the spare pillow that had tumbled from the bed in her sleep was a single yellow flower. Five heart-shaped petals. As fresh and as pure as if it were in full bloom in a summer meadow.Drowsy and mind-fogged, she crept downstairs to look for a book on Irish wildflowers. It took her a while to find anything that resembled the yellow flower, but eventually she found an image and description that matched: “Cinquefoil, a flower renowned for its healing properties and a flower also said to be favored by fairy folk. Meanings associated with it include money, protection, sleep, prophetic dreams, and beloved daughter.”— Hazel Gaynor
“I fell into a restless sleep in which my dreams carried me away over misty valleys and moonlit woodlands toward a fairy glen, where I watched their beautiful midnight revels in silent awe as I whispered the words of my favorite poem. ” ‘You shall hear a sound like thunder, / And a veil shall be withdrawn, / When her eyes grow wide with wonder, / On that hill-top, in that dawn.”— Hazel Gaynor
“That night, I fell into a deep, travel-weary sleep, lulled by the familiar sound of the waterfall beyond the window. I dreamed of the beck fairies, a blur of lavender and rose-pink and buttercup-yellow light, flitting across the glittering stream, beckoning me to follow them toward the woodland cottage. There, the little girl with flame-red hair picked daisies in the garden, threading them together to make a garland for her hair. She picked a posy of wildflowers- harebell, bindweed, campion, and bladderwort- and gave them to me.”— Hazel Gaynor
“life is as fragile as a butterfly win and we must carry it lightly. Sometimes it will sit happily in our hands, sometimes it will fly away from us, but in the end—no matter the distance or the complications in between—the things we truly care for will always come back to us.”— Hazel Gaynor
“I moved silently across the garden, silvered with moonlight, my feet barely touching the ground. I brushed past fern and tree, following the lights across the stream, toward the cottage in the clearing where I watched a little girl surrounded by light and laughter as the fairies threaded flowers through her hair. I stood out of sight, peering through the tangled blackberry bushes, but the girl saw me, rushing forward, her hand outstretched, a white flower clasped between her fingers. “For Mammy,” she said. “For my Mammy.”— Hazel Gaynor
“With the rumble of the waterfall in the distance, I slipped into sleep and dreamed of a red-haired girl holding a posy of white flowers. The words of Mr. Noyes’s poem crept from the pages of my picture book and tiptoed into my mind. “Then you blow your magic vial, / Shape it like a crescent moon, / Set it up and make your trial, / Singing, ‘Fairies, ah, come soon!”— Hazel Gaynor
“With my arms wrapped around Rosebud, I dreamed of heather-topped hills and sleepy valleys and a pretty woodland stream where dragonflies danced across the water as I sat down among the ferns and the meadowsweet, waiting for the summer to find me.”— Hazel Gaynor
“So I care for this restless fluttering in my heart as if it were a bird with a broken wing, in the hope that it will one day heal and fly.”— Hazel Gaynor
“…the more I felt that perhaps believing in fairies was more important than seeing them. In seeing, there is often question and doubt.”— Hazel Gaynor