fairy tales – Feminism and Religion

Holy Acts of Becoming: Sacred Reclamations and Gender in Children’s Literature, part 2 by Elanur Williams

part 1 was posted yesterday

Liminality of the Soul

‘Hansel and Gretel’ illustration by Karrie Fransman in ‘Gender Swapped Fairy Tales’ by Karrie Fransman and Jonathan Plackett (Faber & Faber, 2020). Used for commentary and review purposes under Fair Use guidelines. Website: https://karriefransman.com/project/gender-swapped-fairy-tales/

I have always adored fairy tales and folk tales, as they were the original, shimmering mirrors of my own interior world. In my own spiritual formation, I found my earliest refuge in the ‘monsters’ of the canon. I was drawn to the Selkie, whose power lived in her shed skin, and the shapeshifters who refused to be fixed in a single narrative. These were my mysterious teachers who offered profound knowledge, that I might have an interior life that does not match the exterior expectations of the world. By re-reading these archetypes, I see that the ‘liminal’ is not a place of exclusion, but the most sacred place of all: the threshold where the divine creates.

The traditional “curse” of the beast in fairy tales can be approached as a narrative of liminality, an invitation to exist in the “in-between” where nature and spirit intersect. This “curse” is, fundamentally, a colonial misunderstanding of power and a fear of the fluid. Figures like the trickster, the shapeshifter, and the mermaid reveal that the “soul” has never been bound by a static form.

Holy Acts of Becoming: Sacred Reclamations and Gender in Children’s Literature, part 1 by Elanur Williams

‘Little Red Riding Hood’ illustration by Karrie Fransman in ‘Gender Swapped Fairy Tales’ by Karrie Fransman and Jonathan Plackett (Faber & Faber, 2020). Used for commentary and review purposes under Fair Use guidelines. Website: https://karriefransman.com/project/gender-swapped-fairy-tales/

For generations, books have served as children’s first primers on the soul, and long before children encounter formal theology, they are offered spiritual blueprints through folklore, myths, and fairy tales. Although folklore is a metamorphic and often subversive space, too often these stories have been constrained by essentialist moralism, a framework where goodness must be beautiful, evil must be deformed, and gender is an immutable divine decree. Imagine the princess waiting in passive, delicate virtue; the prince acting with muscular, conquering strength. Any disruption of these orders (think of the cursed beast or the transformative sea witch) is framed as a tragedy, a cautionary tale against altering one’s inherent form.

But these interpretations do a profound disservice to the expansiveness of the divine. Spiritual language does not need to be rigid; spiritual experience is often the opposite. In fact, the lexicon of faith, mysticism, and mythology is uniquely, beautifully equipped to honor gender fluidity and the trans experience. To diversify children’s literature is not merely a political act; it is an act of holy reclamation.

Evolution of Cinema and Shift of the Moral Universe by Sabahat Fida

Annie Anderson, Beauty and the Beast, wikimedia commons, public domain

For most of cinematic history, the moral universe of film was anchored in clarity. The hero was dharmic—principled, disciplined, and guided by a moral compass that was neither ambiguous nor negotiable. The villain, by contrast, represented a clear rupture in the ethical order. Actions had consequences; justice was intelligible; human beings possessed agency, responsibility, and accountability. Main stream cinema reflected a world in which right and wrong, virtue and vice, were not merely narrative devices but metaphysical coordinates. One could locate a character on the map of moral compass with precision.

Older Indian cinema often adhered to a strong moral framework in which even the most charismatic or beloved protagonists were ultimately required to pay for their transgressions on screen. Unlike today’s era of morally ambiguous films—where anti-heroes may triumph, consequences are negotiable, and ethical lines are intentionally blurred—classic cinema rarely allowed wrongdoing to go unpunished. Yet this does not mean that earlier films lacked sophistication or ambiguity; rather, they explored moral conflict within a clear ethical horizon, allowing audiences to empathize deeply with flawed characters while still witnessing their inevitable downfall. For example, in Deewaar (1975), Amitabh Bachchan’s Vijay becomes an iconic rebel whom audiences passionately sympathize with, yet he must die in the end to restore moral order. In Parwana (1971), his obsessive, morally dark character meets a tragic ending, demonstrating the same principle. Even beyond Bachchan, iconic villains like Gabbar Singh in Sholay (1975) was originally written to die as a narrative necessity. Through such storytelling, older cinema balanced empathy with accountability, illustrating that complexity and moral clarity once powerfully coexisted.

Elemental Grannies: Snippets from Over the Edge of the World, A Fairytale Novel by Elizabeth Cunningham

Introduction: An old woman, Rose begins spinning the tale the children never tire of hearing. Grannies Sweep, Spark, Dirt, and Brine, were old, so old, they forgot who they were and how they came to live where they did: a sheer pinnacle, a walking forest, an old shoe, a ship moored off a hidden shore.

But Rose has never told the whole story—to anyone. The story of a world these children have never seen, where the rich lived inside a vast dome, protected from heat and cold, rain, wind—and hunger. Nor do the children know about madness or cruelty. She has never told them about Noone, the power behind the dome, his obsession with immortality.

If she never tells these stories, who will remember the bravery of the beauty singers who daily risked the ultimate penalty—being thrown over the edge of world. Who will remember the intrepid children who danced defiantly on the dung heaps. If Rose does not tell her own story, who could imagine her birth deep inside the dome, the dangerous secret of her existence. A secret guarded her two huge aunties, once ragged outside boys, who became outrageous bodyguards in towering wigs and heels. To protect the new world and the people she loves, it is time for Rose to tell…

Reweaving the Great Round: A Winter Solstice Story by Sara Wright

The scent of balsam wafts through the room as I cut the boughs to make my annual wreath to honor all trees, those that still stand, those who are slaughtered. My intention each year is twofold – acknowledge my love for these sentient beings and to participate in the unfolding of the Great Round. Other intentions vary from year to year until recently when a prayer for protection from the dark forces that permeate the psyches of so many peoples of this earth becomes a yearly part of this winter ceremony, even as a multitude of others suffer intolerable losses.

Today’s American culture creates endless non-religious festivals to celebrate the entrance into this winter season that are totally devoid of meaning beyond consumerism – buy more ‘stuff’ – chop down more trees. These devourers can never be satiated because the chasm is too wide and deep.

Herstory Profiles: The Season of the Witch by Anjeanette LeBoeuf

Throughout the modern ages there have been stories, legends, myths, and historical accounts of threatening people, mainly women, who have been linked with the supernatural, with containing powers, engaging with elements that go beyond the natural world, and who decentralize, shake up, and counter mainstream patriarchal systems and groups. And the predominate word which can be translated and transcend languages is that of WITCH. And since we are in the month of October, when it becomes somewhat acceptable for people to deck their houses with items long been associated with witchcraft, this month’s herstory profiles is diving into all things witchy.

So, lets deconstruct what witches do and how they function in history and in modern times. When we look at the origins of magic – at the very core- is the manipulation of the natural world for supernatural outcomings. Those outcomes can be a range – from conversing with supernatural beings, healings, prophecy, alchemy, transformation, and to even holding secret knowledge. The word magic has origins in Ancient Persian and Proto-Indo-European languages with concepts of “being able to” and to “have power.” If we look at ancient cultures, civilizations, and religions we found multiple variations of people and roles being able to contain, control, and weld magic.

Once Upon a Time Women Storytellers Spun the World by Carolyn Lee Boyd

Cinderella-Magic on Parade: By HumMelissa_Glee – Cinderella – Magic On Parade, CC BY 2.0

Cinderella helped make me a pint-sized feminist. Well, of course my strong and rebellious mother and grandmothers were my primary influences, but at age five, Cinderella was definitely up there. I learned in my own little girl way from Disney’s Cinderella that women could forge their own destiny (of sorts), older women can be powerful for good and evil, magic pervades the universe, and whether other women support you is key to success. I completely missed the message about marrying Prince Charming. How did this story get from its origins millennia ago to a little suburban American girl in the 1960s?

Once upon a time, all over the globe, women practiced the inspiring, transformative art of storytelling. In Europe, as their world was overtaken by more patriarchal cultures, they kept alive fairy tales that spoke of their traditional world infused with magical energy and spirit beings and shared with each other new tales of their lives and troubles. In many western cultures from ancient times till very recently, however, storytelling was strictly segregated by gender, with men gathering in taverns or homes to hear epic hero tales while women gathered to sing or tell stories to each other of supernatural beings, local events, and their lives while doing tasks like spinning (hence, “spinning a yarn”) and weaving. Not surprisingly, male folklore scholars have for decades overlooked women storytellers who were also often devalued and denigrated in their own communities. More recently, largely female folklore scholars have brought to light a rich and important tradition of European women storytellers.

From the Archives: Sleeping Beauty: An ancient tale for these challenging times by Diane Perazzo

This was originally posted on April 24, 2021

Fairy tales are intwined in our imagination and our spirituality. As Jane Yolan writes, one of the subtlest and yet most important functions of myth and fantasy is to “provide a framework or model for an individual’s belief system.” (1)

In the Reclaiming spiritual tradition, we often use fairy tales in healing and self development work. These stories act as warp and weft as we weave and spin complex ritual arcs and other events that take place at extended Witch Camp sessions. In Twelve Wild Swans, Starhawk points out that fairy stories are “more than just encouraging and inspiring. They are also templates for soul healing from Europe’s ancestral wise women and healers. When the ancient Earth-based cultures of Europe were destroyed, these stories remained.” (2)

Witches Butter by Sara Wright

The other day I found the most beautiful fungus on an aging white pine set against deep green moss that was almost arcing over the brook. When I looked up Dacrymyces palmatis I discovered that it’s common name was “Witches Butter.” That figures I thought – this must mean that this plant has medicinal qualities, and of course it does along with the fact that the fungus is edible.

Any time I see the word witch associated with a plant if I am not familiar with it I start digging into research inevitably coming up with the same kind of information – the plant/ tree/ fungus/slime mold is edible and has medicinal value.

The word witch as many of us know has at its root to bend or shape. Shape -shifting by non –ordinary means.

Through a Dark Forest: Fairy Tales as Women’s Stories

My first brush with raw and authentic fairy tales took place nearly thirty years when I was teaching English to Japanese children in Munich, Germany, where I lived from 1989 – 2000.

Intending to stock up on children’s literature, I discovered the a whole section of the Munich City Library was devoted to fairy tales from different cultures. It contained literally thousands of volumes, some of them ornate and leather-bound, as beautiful to hold as they were to read. I loved the Russian fairy tales the best, for they were the most haunting and evocative for me.

The fairy tales held me in thrall and would not let me go. They got under my skin and rooted themselves in my writing and my life. I was hooked.

Fairy tales are the domain of women. In past centuries, the traditional European storytellers were women sitting at their hearths and spinning at their spinning wheels–spinning a yarn, if you will. Telling old wives’ tales.

The original fairy tales were not romantic children’s stories. Only very recently with Walt Disney have these raw and very ominous stories been reduced to little more than cute cartoons. Until the 17th century, fairy tales were adult entertainment, the way of passing a dark winter’s evening. Many older fairy tales are quite bawdy. Allocation of fairy tales to the nursery took place in the 18th century when the educated upper classes rejected the irrational and supernatural aspects of the tales in favor of a more rational and scientific world view, thus dismissing these tales as nonsense and only good for amusing young children.

Yet, as the enduring popularity of Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ Women Who Run with the Wolves attests, fairy tales are meaningful and relevant for contemporary women seeking deep guiding archetypes and images of female strength.

These centuries-old stories bristle with wild and sometimes terrifying women who possess amazing powers. The witches and sorceresses who inhabit the dark forests of fairy tales offer a stark and startling contrast to the innocent maiden protagonists.

What I find most fascinating about fairy tales is not the young girl’s encounter with the prince, but with the witch. Baba Yaga in the Russian tradition and Frau Holle in the German tradition are both sorceresses of intimidating dimensions.

Baba Yaga eats human flesh and flies around in a cauldron. Her house dances on hen’s feet. Frau Holle lives in a house in a beautiful underground meadow and she showers young girls with either pure gold or filth, depending on how they have served her.

Both these figures are ancient archetypes of female sovereignty that had their origins as pagan goddesses. Baba Yaga was once a great mother goddess of the Slavonic peoples. According to ethnographer Sonja Ruettner-Cova, Frau Holle was originally a solar goddess and a weather goddess. When she shook out her featherbed, it snowed.

Ironically Baba Yaga and Frau Holle have lived on in fairy tales even after the old myths and religions that honored them were banished, precisely because fairy tales have been dismissed as children’s stories. The tales’ deep magic lies hidden in their deceptive simplicity.

The naive young girl must go into the woods on the darkest night to face Baba Yaga. She must leap down a well to find her way to Frau Holle’s house and serve her for a year and a day. Once the young heroine encounters the sorceress, she will be completely and utterly transformed–a girl no longer but a woman with secret powers of her own.

Fairy tales are full of images of women who both challenge and empower other women.

The culmination of the heroine’s journey a deep inner rootedness. It is finding and claiming that house in the forest deep in your soul.

Mary Sharratt is on a mission to write women back into history. Her most recent novel Ecstasy is about the composer Alma Schindler Mahler. If you enjoyed this article, sign up for Mary’s newsletter or visit her website.