The First Blossom—A May Day Tale from The Glen

It all begins in that peculiar little moment

when winter hasn’t gone and spring hasn’t quite arrived.

 

It was the very first of May—May the First, May-Day Proper,

and The Glen was still rubbing its eyes.

 

The frost was drowsy on the ground,

the Sun was sulking behind the hill,

and the cows were chewing cud like they might wake up

or they might just go back to bed.

 

Mouse, who is terribly small and terribly wise,

woke up early that day (as she always does on Important Occasions),

and tied on her shawl, and packed her satchel,

and gathered all the things one must gather

when standing between two seasons and two worlds.

 

She had her primroses for the threshold,

her rowan cross (keirn, if you please, and split by paw—not knife),

a wisp of mugwort in her coat, and

a crock of water for the fairies—who are always thirsty on May-Eve.

Now you may think The Glen simply wakes itself,

but no, no, no—that will never do.

You see, the Sun will not rise until every creature has said,

in their very best voice, “Good morning, Sun.”

That’s the agreement.

 

It was signed in claw and wing and root and hoof long ago,

before even Mouse was born—and that is saying something.

So Mouse marched to the foot of the Grand Old Oak,

where she always begins her work of Waking the Day.

 

But this year, someone else was already there.

She stood upon a twisted root, her chin lifted high,

wearing a dress made of silk and sighs

and stitched with stubbornness.

 

She was Blossom.

The First Blossom.

The Very First.

 

Her petals trembled, not from fear (though the wind was biting),

but because she had bloomed before the world was warm.

“Excuse me,” said Mouse, peering up,

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

Blossom gave a twirl, just to show off her skirt.

“Darling,” she said, “I am never ready—but I am blooming.”

And then she added, as if Mouse ought to have known:

“New beginnings are always a bit shaky.”

Well, that’s the truth, Best Beloved.

 

You know it, and I know it, and so did Mouse.

“Quite right,” Mouse said, and laid her primroses down.

The Breeze came tumbling in just then,

a little late, a little loud, smelling of whin smoke and chimney tops.

 

She whirled through the branches and said,

“I would’ve waited till the frost went off the grass,

but then, I’ve never had much fashion sense.”

Blossom sniffed, as blossoms do.

 

“Style is never convenient,” she said.

“And besides, the Sun won’t come until he’s called.”

Which was true.

 

So Mouse clambered atop a mossy stone,

and called in her clearest voice:

“Good morning, Sun!”

Rabbit echoed her.

 

So did Hedgehog and Cat and even the snoring badger (though it came out “G’mmrng.”)

“GOOD MORNING, DARLING!” sang Blossom, who was not at all shy.

And then—only then—the Sun yawned and rose up over the hill,

all golden and grand and a bit dramatic,

pouring his light down like honey on toast.

 

“Ah,” he said, spotting Blossom.

“You again. You’re early every year.”

And Blossom curtsied, her petals glowing.

“Someone has to go first.”

And that, O Best Beloved, is how it all began.

 

That’s how May came, and summer began its creeping in,

and how the fairies stayed away (thanks to the rowan crosses and the good crock of water),

and how every year, at the start of May,

a single brave blossom steps forward before the world feels ready.

Because beginnings are like that.

 

They tremble a little.

They shiver on the breeze.

But they reach for the light anyway.

And so should we.

 

And Best Beloved, on this soft and trembling morning, as the first light brushes the tops of the hills and the petals of spring begin to fall like quiet wishes, I send you a blessing from The Glen:

May you feel the courage of the Blossom who bloomed before the world was ready.

May you trust the light, even when it hides behind hills.

 

And may every shaky beginning gently carry you toward something beautiful.

Today, I want to say a heartfelt thank you to Denise Bisaillon, whose words about brave blossoms blooming in the cold stirred this morning’s story to life.

 

And to you, dear Reader—thank you for your overwhelming, wonderful, soul-lifting support as you wait patiently for your copy of Tales of The Glen to arrive. The delays have been longer than I’d hoped, and this beginning has been a little shaky on my side. But your warmth, your kindness, and your belief have lit the path forward.

 

Every message, every smile, every bit of understanding has meant more than I can say.

From my heart to yours—

Happy May Day.

 

May you always bloom in your own time. 

 

With love,

Victoria Beata

and all the creatures of The Glen 

 

If this story of Blossom and the trembling beauty of May stirred something in you, you’re already part of our growing Glen.

 

You can listen to more tales like this on YouTube—woven for days when courage feels quiet, mornings that come slowly, and hearts that need a soft place to rest.

 

Or visit my shop at www.victoriabeata.shop where illustrated books, cards, and prints await—each one carrying the light and wonder of The Glen into your own season of beginnings.

 

However you choose to read, listen, or share—thank you, Best Beloved, for walking with us, blooming with us, and believing in the magic of a shaky but beautiful start.