Many folktales throughout different cultures feature a heroine being given the impossible task of sorting through grains/seeds– whether that be picking them from the ashes, from between each other, or from their rotting counterparts.
In this task, she often does as much as she can before submitting to a higher power, whether that power recognizes her virtue or she directly asks for help varies based on the culture and tale.
Featured are eight such tales, most of which can be categorized into “Snake Bride” (ATU 425) type tales or “Cinderella” (Both often ATU 510 in the folklore index– Cinderellas are specifically ATU 510A)
The circle puts them in no particular order, as “origins” and lineages are muddied, and many of the current incarnations have been influenced by each other, though Ye Xian is the oldest known “complete” version of Cinderella.
Snake Brides:
Psyche, Eros and Psyche (Greco-Roman)
Sukkia, The Snake’s Bride (India)
Donan Sampakang Tale about Gansaļangi and Donan Sampakang (Indonesian)
Cinderellas:
Aschenputtel (German)
Tam, Tấm and Cám (Vietnam)
Unnamed Heroine The Wonderful Birch (Finish & Slavic)
Ye Xian (Chinese)
Neither (ATU 480B– Stepmother and Stepdaughter)
Vasilisa, Vasilisa the Wise (or Beautiful) (Slavic)
Tuesday, 21st September 2021
I am a sucker for self-sabotage. My words, all of my own creation, fool me every time. Layers and layers of veiled truths that blind me--but I guess I am not looking at the signs.
When the people you are closest to, who may even know you more than you know yourself, call you fearless and strong when you start doubting yourself, it makes you realise that there is a whole part of yourself that only others see and believe in. And maybe you could start believing in that too.
“Accept how you feel but don’t let feelings rule you. You are in control. You are not their slave.”
— Unknown
Sometimes I read books that I only want to keep to myself as if the whole world would conquer the magic I felt in a few simple moments
Strained and wanting
I simmer below the surface,
a thousand pieces of light
stretched thin and glaring
piece together my skin,
thoughts rumbling through
troubled waters, fine lines
and wasted moments,
preoccupied with nothing
Thursday, 8th July 2021
There is freedom in the shadowed storm as the veil-wrapped sky billows in a climbing release. I lay here on the rough strewn ground, a wilderness of rain-kissed grass, tumbled yarn, and loose cut threads. Find me in the running lake carving eyes into the overgrown path, lost to the planted sky now curling into a silver smile.
Freedom is more than just running through the rain on Thursday afternoons.
Historian, writer, and poet | proofreader and tarot card lover | Virgo and INTJ | dyspraxic and hypermobile | You'll find my poetry and other creative outlets stored here. Read my Substack newsletter Hidden Within These Walls. Copyright © 2016 Ruth Karan.
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