They say that faerie-folk never die. They say that, when a fairy’s earth-life is over, its spirit leaves this earth in a gossamer bubble. It lifts towards the heavens until it bursts spreading its color onto a rainbow that arcs across the sky. For every bubble that bursts another piece of gold is added to the pot of gold – fairy gold.

                                              

 

While Leanne was here in her earth-life, she gave away fairy gold everywhere she went. She knew that the more she gave away,

 the more there would be for everyone: 

·        Her stories brave and true, silly and sad…“Words play, verses sing, and toes tap as her characters dance their way along 

the path of story.” 

·        Her music enriched her stories as it enriched our lives…the tin whistle tickled our funny bone, the Celtic harp 

plucked at our heartstrings, while her bodhran beat the steady rhythm of her story. 

·        Her creative writing bolstered by the muse gave pen to memorable word plays, puns, twists, and clever

 turn of words. Words were not just images, they were tangible, manageable, miracles that evoked a myriad of feelings

 in her readers…her journals: “Tales from the Dock Side;” My Space: “Leanne's musings, ramblings, & tales;” and

 her final thoughts on blogspot: “It’s Not Normal”

·        Her poetry laced with clever word play, forged in philosophy, and stamped with humor…

“SOMEDAY SOON we'll take that one LAST STEP, And point our bow to sea, To see that SECOND SUNRISE, 

In perfect SERENITY.” Here is a poem that she submitted to the Storytell listserve, that reminds us what a privilege it is call

oneself a storyteller.

How did you know when it was time to call yourself a "storyteller?

      When everything you hear,
    tells you a story,
When everything you see,
    reminds you of a story,
When everything you taste
    conjures up a story,
When everything you smell,
    evokes for you a story,
When everything you touch,
    summons up a story,

You might indeed be a storyteller.

But it is not until
you release those stories,
Allow the images to free form into the
imaginations of others,
Spilling their seeds
    into the creation of more stories,
Funneled through the love and cares of family and friends,
    who will love you
    regardless
Enriched, enhanced,
    amplified with the hopes and dreams of strangers
    who have no other reason to love
    or care for you,
Nestled into the unconscious mind of a growing child
    where they will grow with goodness and strength.

Ahh, then, call yourself a storyteller.

And when they offer you praise,
    compliments,
    bravos,
    endorsements,
    money...

Remember,
    the sounds,
    the sights,
    the tastes,
    the smells,
    the touch,

Of the Love of Story.

                                         And, as if, prophetic, she wrote a poem that started and ended with…