Pondering on how we might feel limited and/or expanded by our sensitivity, I remembered the Grimm brothers’ story of the Princess and the Pea and how much it had confused and delighted me as a child. Here at the other end of my reproductive life, postmenopause, the story seemed ripe for re-interpretation so I sent an open invitation to share creative writing on the theme of The Princess and the Pea. This beautiful collection is the result.
If you enjoy these pieces, please feel free to share them with your fellow sensitives. There are sharing buttons at the bottom of the page.
She was curled up on the mustard yellow, velvet chaise lounge, feet tucked underneath her leaning her head, which was slightly tilted to the right, on her palm, watching them deliver the new one.
Plastic unwrapped, a slight scent of sterility and the packing factory inched its way in her direction, and she scrunched up her fine nose in suitable response. There was a cry of ‘one, two, three, lift!’ and the grunts of the men as their muscles swelled to the task at hand and their knees buckled on wicket wooden ladders as they hoisted it up on top of the others.
A woman scurried in then, all bonnet and bowing, and climbing up another small wooden crudely designed ladder, indeed there were several, set about adding sheets and pillows and covers with frills and flowers and silks.
She watched, her face expressionless as the stooping woman finished her chore and hobbled bowingly out of the room.
There were seventeen now. Seventeen mattresses piled high. Her night-time plinth, a resting place for her lifeless dreaming body, daring her, mocking her, defiantly challenging the whims and fates of her body.
Her body.
Ah! As if she had had a choice! Well, maybe she had, but the road not taken seemed a doomed place of death as far as she was concerned and so she had decided wickedly and excruciatingly, to make her same choice over and over again! All was swimmingly fine for a short while, and then, upon inspection, though for why and for what purpose she honestly could not tell, a new mattress was sent for immediately and this odd and unwelcomed ritual continued.
No one spoke of the rhyme nor reason. Her mother had pursed her lips so many times that it was impossible to know truly whether she had any left! And her father, well as soon as she opened her mouth in protest, his bumbling and sudden urgency to flee on horseback to the sounds of tremulous trumpets was a reaction so sudden that it never ceased to startle her!
So as baffled as she was, as puzzled as she felt, and as bemused as she found herself, she was never any wiser.
However, come bedtime, bathed and robed in too fancy a nightdress, sheets turned down and hot milk tendered, she was as eager as a goat on a newly found wild hillock, for the light to be extinguished and the door to close firm behind her.
For some time now she had taken to disrobe immediately the burdensome cloth that interrupted her body from the fresh sheets and silken covers. Alongside the glass of milk, she had placed a small vial of dark liquor, which she had to clutch in her hand whilst her nightly ablutions were fussed around her. Yes, the table was a ridiculous creature, all legs, which owing to the continuing addition of mattresses, had had the misfortune of being adapted regularly by the court’s carpenter, so that it grew and grew upwards, keeping in line with a comfortable distance for her hand to find the objects placed upon it at any hour of the night!
She reached out an arm and her fingers skilfully and deftly found said vial and propping herself up she drained the hot fire liquid, enjoying the burning sensation which for some reason made its aim straight for the cleft between her legs.
She leaned back down again and let out a long and languid sigh, a few ‘Mmmmmms’ and began to let her hands roam the expanse of pearl soft skin of her breasts and belly. She murmured again and arched her back, little moans exiting softly from her bud-like mouth.
Her hands continued to stroke and knead and press and feather their touch down down until they found what they were seeking.
She did not know what it was called. She had been surprised to discover it one evening whilst casually enjoying the form of her agile and splendid body, when her fingers had accidentally brushed past it and a flutter of excitement had snaked its way up her spine. Enjoying teasing this sensation she was further surprised upon discovering that it became hard, and she had delightedly chosen to name it her pea. She knew it was not of a green colour of course. But akin to those fresh peas it too had its own pod to clothe it.
The first time she had found, to her enraptured delight, that with this swelling she had become wet, juicy, a lingering liquid coating her fingers. This helped with the rubbing and a force unlike anything she had ever experienced, shot through her alongside a few grunts and an exalted gasp of release. She felt instantaneously sleepy and happy, and in a half doze, fingers all juice and flesh, she played with this pea several more times until she fell into a most satisfyingly deep and heartful sleep!
This new game of rubbing the pea became a nightly fascination, her body responding with a feeling of being deeply fed in a way that even the court’s chefs could never master.
A few days later a new mattress was first delivered. No-one made eye contact with her.
It was the next morning and having nearly rolled out of the castle heighted bed several times she decided that she needed an answer to the why and reason for such peculiar mattress towering behaviour. She knew that no one else had seventeen mattresses piled up high, for she had stolen about the palace and peeked into as many of the bedrooms as she could. Nope. All had just the one.
And so, after breakfast, robing herself in a fine sheepskin wrap to keep the crisp air from soiling her delicacy, she wandered out the huge front doors, which were always open, just in case a fine prince was lost, she was told by her mother, and set off down the hill towards the village. She had never been here before. She had never thought to or given much mind to activities outside of the grand courts with their gardens and peacocks and water fountains and geese and swans and pools of golden fish. She had nannies and servants, musicians to entertain her with, fools and jesters, acrobats and clowns, and dozens of ladies and lords in waiting (though she never did discover what they were waiting for!) and their own fancy footed offspring to play with. This had all been sufficient. Fine. Suffice. A way to pleasantly and nicely pass the time. Until she had found her pea. Then, something had been pulling at her, tweaking at her skin, making her itch and restless and forget to comb her hair or brush her teeth or lace up her corset or wear stockings! And they kept on adding another mattress, and another, and another.
Well, it had to stop soon anyways she thought, as she was possibly only two more mattresses away from her nose being able to write its name and nosiness along the painted ceiling. And then what!? Would they bring in the poor carpenter to lift the ceiling too?! Would they make her sleeping parlour anew, a room with no ceiling at all, just the sky, so that she would be lifted higher and higher and higher until she was in the company of God and the Angels?! Did they know about the pea? She wondered this and half glanced curiously up at the sky as she entered the village.
It was early. The dawn’s song had just been sung and only the gentlest sounds of waking could be heard from the homes she passed. For some reason she knew where she was heading. Her feet were taking her all the way through the village and right to the very last house. The one that was pretty much on the road, half in and half out of the village. As she approached, she realised that this was the only house that had smoke rising out of its chimney and a warm orange glow in the windows. Though she was mildly surprised to find the door open, she didn’t hesitate to make her entrance. Crossing over the threshold and she was beckoned to come and sit with the owner on her couch.
The owner of said establishment was unlike anyone she had ever seen, and she couldn’t help but gawp for some time as she took in the woman before her. This woman, though even more stooped than her maidservant, was definitely unafraid to look her in the eye, and indeed the look was so clear and penetrating, that it was she who lowered her gaze. This woman was old, a crone she said proudly, and had long thick hairs protruding from her chin, thick ears and legs, a large protruding belly and long grey and white hair which whilst introducing herself to the princess she quickly and with adept competence curled up and pinned into a bun. And she had large brown eyes, that though slightly disconcerting, were kind and wise and instantly put the princess at ease.
They shared tea. The crone stoked the fire and ordered the princess outside to fetch more wood and then ordered her to visit the well to fetch a pail of water and then ordered her to pick some tomatoes from the back of her garden! This was all very new for the princess and though she was slightly taken aback she didn’t mind and quite enjoyed completing each task carefully and as best as she could. Once all the being ordered seemed to have ground to a halt, and just as the princess was opening her mouth so speak and share with the crone her secret about the pea, and pleasurable sensations, and good dreaming and glowing hair and skin, the crone began to speak in a very calm and clear and strangely hypnotic way.
It didn’t really faze the princess that the crone knew why she had come. She told the princess that she had lived here for many many years and had seen a long line of princesses grow up and marry princes and move away, and that she had nearly given up waiting for her to arrive when she smelt her upon the wind that very morning!
You have found the secret, haven’t you? The secret all women must know of.
The princess simply stared at the crone, as an owl cawed and called through the silence, and a black cat slinked casually around her bare ankles, soft and warm.
Let me teach you.
The crone asked the girl to follow her into her garden, and towards the flowers growing all along the old stone wall. She reached up and cut the stem of a pink peony and gave it to her, inviting her to dip her nose into its petals and inhale the sweet, honeyed fragrance. The princess ran her fingertips across the paper-thin, satin petals, layered and coy, until she touched the sweet sticky centre.
That’s the honey, dear. The nectar. It lies hidden, and only the bravest bees will find it and stick its nose deep within. This is the sap that gives life.
The crone placed the flower behind the girl’s ear. Beautiful!
Then, taking her hand in hers, she led her down the winding path and towards the river which ran behind her house, and placed her hand into the water. The girl felt the water’s flow, its strong force trickling through her fingers. Reaching in the crone pulled out a luminescent clam, which, for reasons beyond magic, were nestled by the bank in hordes. Tapping it the clam opened to reveal the most perfect pearl, sitting upon its soft pink cushioned flesh. With a dexterity and swiftness of hand, the old crone did this seven more times, until seven pearls lay like eggs in her palm. She pulled a long thick silver hair from her head and like the sorceress that she was, fashioned a necklace of said pearls and placed it around the young girl’s neck.
Never forget that you are a queen. Of the ocean. Of its depths. And that the water’s force lies between your legs. And it’s the greatest force that there is.
Finally, they went back into the house, and surrounded by candles, towards the back of the one large room that was the crone’s abode, she knelt by an altar, whereby a statue of Mother Maria was hung, fairy lights (of actual fairies, of course), strewn around her. The statue was old, simple, the folds of Mary’s robes clothing her form, her head cloaked.
The ultimate goddess. The innocent whore. The compassionate one who embraces all of you. Dirty and divine. The temptress and the innocent. Mother and mistress. The princess could not help but notice how much the statue looked like what lay between her legs, and she blushed at this obvious devotion to her.
The crone looked deep into her eyes, where worlds opened up for the girl to see, and where she almost tumbled and lost herself in them. And over the course of the sun marking time as it rose in its arc through the day until resting gently on the edge of the horizon, the crone taught her about her power. The power of what lay between her legs.
From that day forth, she dares to ask in the royal court when princes come to court her all unnoticed and not given her voice, she pipes up with just the one question: Can you bring me pleasure, can you honour my body, are you afraid of the dark secrets in my dirty and divine cavern?
And there are murmurs of astonishment, tight lipped, buttoned up ladies in puff powdered outfits devoid of sex and flower and pleasure faint and fan themselves quicker, and the rouge on their white painted cheeks grows stronger.
Until one day she thinks fuck it, and she runs away flashing her clit with glee, cackling into the woods and the forests and then the towns and the cities, on to boats and ships to new lands. Scattering like dandelion seeds blown by the mistress winds.
The Princess and her pea.
The End.
Read more of Heidi Hinda’s Storytelling here
Once upon a time, not so long ago, a girl was battling through a storm in a strange city. Her coat was flattened to her belly, she was wet through to her skin. The slap of soaked trouser on thigh dragged her back with every step. She was tired. She’d come a long way, but she knew from the itch on the soles of her feet that there would be a lot further to go.
Fumbling in her bag for her phone, for the 100th time she re-checked the map and confirmed that this was where the Air BnB was supposed to be. She had indeed reached her destination. The wind whipped the fallen leaves around her ears, and the house numbers blurred. The obscure script seemed to dance through the rain on her glasses, but a key box peeked out from behind a pillar, and with numb fingers she extracted the key and fumbled the door open.
Closing the door on the storm she inhaled the scent of her temporary refuge. Stale biscuits with an edge of resentful labour she thought, probably doesn’t pay the cleaner enough. Scrolling through the terse house rules to find the wi-fi code, she opened the window to get rid of the tang of sweat. A cloud of diesel fumes engulfed her. She closed the window.
Moving to the bedroom, before she could find the light switch, the odour changed. A sour metallic tang that spoke of fear and belied the carefully folded towel and chocolate mint on the bed. Her skin prickled. Wondering why anyone bothered to go to the trouble of buying and placing terrible chocolate, perhaps to mask the veiled disappointment in the ‘boutique artist’s apartment close to the hot spots’ headline. Too exhausted to explore further, she peeled off her wet clothes, found her sleep mask, ear plugs, placed her glasses carefully beside her, popped a magnesium and sank into the bed.
It crackled. She stood up and tried the bed again. More crackling like a discarded crisp bag. Peeling back the layers of duvet, fitted sheet and mattress protector she found the culprit, a plastic-backed paper pad to prevent body secretions from penetrating the mattress. Remaking the bed, minus the giant crisp bag, she dropped back into bed once more.
A flood of sensation shot down her left leg from hip to sole. There was something uneven about the texture of the mattress, visions of an abandoned vibrator came to her mind. Shifting to lie on her right side, she could not avoid the bruise blooming from the ominous wrongness that dug into her hip. Once again she removed the duvet, the fitted sheet, the mattress protector and levered up the sullen mattress at one corner. Hefting it further, the light gleamed on a small metal object. Part of an earring, or broken necklace perhaps. Placing it on the mantlepiece, she re-made the bed with mattress, mattress cover, fitted sheet and duvet and got back into bed.
She exhaled long and slow as her teacher had recommended. But even before the next inhale, her body signalled a warning: the shell of her ears seemed to bag and weigh heavy. Her stomach tightened, was it her ill-advised snacking on the journey, or her spidey sense gone rogue? With a deep sigh she reached for a second magnesium tablet, fumbled for her meditation app and tried again to settle herself into sleep. Her stomach bagged and growled in sympathy with her ears. Between the gaps of traffic noise from the street, she heard something else, an irregular fluttering from the other side of the studio. She tried placing the pillow over her ear but the vibrations seemed to throb in her now out-sized eardrums through both ear plugs and pillow.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she perched for a moment with back bowed, before heading across the room to locate the sound. It seemed to be coming from the tiny fridge in the kitchenette where the small counter-top gleamed with the sheen of a hasty wipe down. So much noise from such a teeny white box. Poking around inside she found an out-of-date carton of oat milk, ominously claggy inside. The noise came from the back of the fridge, and reaching blindly behind it she found something loose. Transgressing the house rules – do not turn off this switch –pulling hard, she disconnecting both fridge and a tangled object. An innocent-looking lanyard, the kind that held her pass for work, was tangled in the mechanism. Originally grey, it was grungy and stained, obviously it had seen many passes through security in its time. Turning off the fridge brought sudden quiet, though the traffic grumbled on, a siren soared in the distance. With the absence of the fridge noise, she seemed to locate herself in time and space. Aware of her smallness in the expanse of the world around her, a swirling moment of transcendence. Dizzy from the surprising slip into a ‘thin place’, she placed the unsavoury lanyard next to the earring on the mantlepiece, checked her phone for the next day’s earliest train and resigned herself to a night of educational podcasts.
Much later, back home from her trip and returned to everyday concerns, the night at the Air BnB in the city had become an amusing anecdote to share with friends, her sensitivities framed as a lovable foible that tripped her up. Scrolling on the way to work one day, while the new leaves on her city’s trees gleamed in the soft rain, her attention was caught by a repost someone had made. It concerned the city she had visited the past autumn. ‘TW assault’ it started. It detailed how the body of a women had been found close to the place she had stayed, thought to have been strangled. Her grieving family shared devasting testimonies to the dead woman’s kindness and resilience, appealing for witnesses. The girl’s stomach clenched, skin fizzing, she recalled the night of terrible sleep in that innocent looking bed; the smell and crackle of the place, biscuits and sweat, the hastily wiped surfaces, the plastic mattress protector, broken earring and hidden lanyard. The woman had disappeared the day before her visit. She dropped an message to the number on the post and in her mind, began to imagine her Air BnB review.
Kate’s second book, The Perimenopause Journal is available to pre-order here
It was very, very, small – that pea.
Dry & hard, nobbly.
Slipped quietly under the mattress
then 20 more mattresses
piled on top.
So small! So nearly-not-there…
that’s what made it so big.
Its almost-hidden ‘you can’t really see me’,
wool pulled over your eyes,
easy to deny but steady, loud, presence.
I felt it even before I got into bed.
Saw it in the queen’s narrowed eyes
as she wished me good night.
Felt it in the quiet desperation
of that prince, so hell bent
on finding perfection.
Felt it creeping through the damp castle walls,
ruffling the silk quilt
laid so casually
over the top
of that pile of mattresses.
I slept on the floor.
Pulled the top mattress off
& lay down.
Slept beautifully, soundly.
Of course I had to give them what they wanted
in the morning.
‘Oh I’m all black & blue’
‘Didn’t sleep all night, what was in that bed?’
But I did – I slept like a baby,
held in the arms of my own knowing.
I trust myself you see.
I feel what I feel & I know what I know.
I felt that pea while it was still in the queen’s hand.
Felt it nipping at me as I lay in the bath
washing off the mud & the rain,
the stains of my long walk.
The prince thinks he’s found his princess now.
I’m no princess.
I won’t be here for long.
Just long enough to warm up, to fill myself
with food & light & that familiar feeling of comfort.
Until the cage of it stifles me again,
with its expectations & people pretending
that 20 layers of soft, comfortable mattresses
can get in the way of what we feel.
Of what we know.
Comfort is compelling.
But it deadens the senses over time,
lulls us to sleep until we can’t hear
the stars turning, or the roots seeking.
I keep my knowing close.
I listen in & know when it’s time,
time for me to untie myself again
and head back out into the
wildness of me.
by Emily Eala
Kitchen Extractor
Distraction tension fury
Turn it off, relief
by Bina Reve-Laitschone
Banished from my home, wandering the impossible rental lands, I watched my Mother dying and packed mine and my daughters many belongings .
You’d have thought a Prince would come in handy, but it was a tiny cottage with a big garden that let us in.
A garden that Mother Nature needed help with. Just turf over rubble, no life. But was I the right woman for this task? She wasn’t sure, was I not too broken?
Would I move all those rocks, then show my mettle?
My ability to feel so deeply, feel such a connection to nature, corresponds with a midlife undoing, turning my sensitivities from inwards to outwards. Mother Nature had set me a task to see if I will go outside and make her a garden. And in return she has helped me through my grief and given me flowers and vegetables, birds and bees. Could I turn rubble and turf into flower and veg beds, would I manage a stiff back, dry rock filled earth, and days of sunburn for the ultimate happy ending, to look out and feel utter hope and amazement at such simple beauty? Was I sensitive enough to care so deeply, to restore her on this patch of land.
All Spring and Summer I toiled, no help, and a teenager to appease.
Until, behold, a garden rich in pollinator friendly flowers of all sizes, vegetables growing from seed. I had passed the test.
Let us hope we can live here happily ever after!
Emma Seville
I had the Ladybird books hardback of ‘The Princess and the Pea’ as a young child. I remember drinking in the illustrations, long before I could actually read it to myself, and very seriously pretending to read it on the bed in the spare room I so desperately wanted, so safe in there, with the pretty pink flowered wallpaper, and the sun beaming through the window with its view of the garden. Such a different vibe to the bedroom I shared with my ‘less than keen’ older Sister- think orange carpet and nylon sheets, oh so 70’s. Anyway, I digress- the book! Everything about the book was beautiful, the heap of mattresses which were covered in different pretty fabrics, the rooms, the gardens, and of course the Princess herself- so beautiful, of course she was absolutely lovable, the chosen one, destined for a life of pure happiness. (would that be me too? What did I need to do?) And that Prince was mighty handsome. But I didn’t really understand the whole pea malarkey. It felt like a trick, one that I desperately wanted her to pass so that she could marry the handsome prince. And how on earth did she get into bed, and out again? Where could they have got all those mattresses anyway – ever practical. But it was so important that she passed the goddamn test! For that was the point of everything! I didn’t see that the Prince scenario wasn’t ideal, I had no idea. And sadly, nobody enlightened me.
I think the idea was that if the Princess could feel the pea beneath those matresses, she would be sensitive enough to marry the Prince. If she got no sleep, he’d be really pleased. But in fact men in my experience- don’t want us to be ‘too’ sensitive. That Prince just wanted himself and probably his friends (albeit silently) to fancy his wife right? And for her to do his bidding, and pick up his pants for decades without complaining, and bear his children whilst remaining young, slim, smiling and beautiful..he wasn’t considering what she needed or yearned for. Am I right?
What happened to them when she started to go through the menopause transition? When she couldn’t bear the floor pants any longer, things often go tits up in work and marriage at this time, and it’s not ourselves we should be blaming, maybe its time to thank our hormones, work with them and fix the wrongs?
Even in my teenage years the truth behind the idea that having a man, and a family made women whole and happy was a big fat lie started to become apparent. I could see this by watching my Mother and her friends. Marriage tho, I still wanted that. I thought of it as an end point to the struggle. My parents obviously thought a man would take me off their hands and provide for me, altho this was never said, but moving to a different county and taking me out of school half way through my A levels seems to suggest it? (University was FREE then too, can I hear Jesus weeping?) No Princes appeared – many many frogs…
Well it turned out none of the men I have loved or cared about have wanted to provide for me, and with the last significant one, for our daughter either. Conned!!! And I felt, always my fault. Until now…
Now I am 54, deeply perimenopausal and I’m feeling powerful. Powerful with the naturally lower levels of estrogen, powerful with my new physical strength, and lack of fear to speak my mind. Single in every sense for over a decade, I have found a deep level of new found self respect. I have no wish to please the eyes of the patriarchy, (or other women for that matter) I have trained myself not to apologise for being on the same walking trajectory as a man in the supermarket/ gym/ pavement in fact, I try to remember to play patriarchy chicken at every reasonable opportunity, which always gives me a thrill. Do not mansplain to this woman! I can see your peas from miles away. Hence the ten push ups, rage can give you a real boost.
Advice to young women- stick to eating the peas,the new little ones, grow your own if you can. Enjoy the dirt in your fingernails and the bees that will enjoy their flowers. Find your own comfortable bed, foster all the things that light you up, never expect a man to provide for you, watch out for the trick peas, and if a good man comes along, put your own hard earned money into your own bank account. And do not pick up his pants!
Emma Seville
I imagine foggy mountain valleys. Clouds of fog rising up from old mighty trees. Linden trees, chestnuts, pines, black locust, beech, birch and various shrubbery.
I imagine the white blossoms of the eldertree like moist shining pearls inbetween the dark green thicket of branches. I imagine dragonflies over a little water spring, which is secretly emerging and rippling quietly from dark holes in loamy earth, humid forest earth. Mosquitos, bugs in shimmering colors, raindrops glittering and dropping from the branches, softly dripping sound here and there.
A swift breeze, a humming and buzzing and there she comes: the princess of bees. There she comes: the princess of soft clouds, moist fog, glittering raindrops and white shining of the elderlblossoms in the greenish forest light. There she comes: a mastress of mindfulness. I imagine how she, the princess, about 15 meters of height, lays her translucent beautiful rich body down, shimmering in all the colors of the rainbow, like bugs and dragonflies around her. Amazing how she moves her spaciousness with grace, like the fog she permeates through the trees. And as she is laying down onto the moist forest earth, she, the princess of the forest, in all her spacious beauty, is noticing this little hard thing underneath her right pelvis bone. half the size of her little finger nail. Cautiosly, slowly, gently and tenderly she is digging a little black shining pea out of the very surface of the earth. She is putting the pea in the palm of her hand, taking a closer look by bringing her palm right infront of her eyes. And what does she, the princess of the forest, discover, as suddenly a ray of sun, breaking through the leaves, shines directly onto this magically gleaming pea? A mircale is unfolding there, in this little gleaming round blackness. A huge galaxy is unfolding inside. Glittering stars, circling planets, star nebula, bursting suns, super novas, meteorites, shooting stars. And while she, the princess of the forest, is watching this immense beauty whirling inside the black pea, she is slowly sinking back inbetween trees and shrubbery and nettles. Her eyes are slowly falling close and she is sinking into a deep velvet sleep, surrounded by the sounds of singing birds, humming and buzzing bees and while her hand is moving softly to the ground, the little black pearl is rolling out of her palm, down to the little nearby water spring and is disappearing with the floating clear water into the depth of the forest.
by eva helene stern***, Graz, AUT
Website/archive: www.evahelenestern.com
Insta: @eva.helene.stern
Mail: stern.eva@gmx.de
Thank you so much for reading our creative interpretations. Please do share your favourites with your friends using the buttons below.
