The Flying Monkeys — Recognizing Them

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

There were forests surrounding the castle, with animals and children running, playing hide and seek. The light and the fertile ground let the forest grow strong; it was thickening and aging. It felt natural, like part of life. Going in there sometimes in the evening could give you a taste of what was about to unfold.

Time passed and life unfolded, unaware of changes so slow, but still so deliberate. Planting of seeds in minds, documenting where, when and how. Invisible only looking back, with hard earnt wisdom.

My work became centered around the forest — maintaining it, keeping the paths open, keeping invasive species under control. There were poisonous plants that often brushed my skin, and there were creatures — or so I thought — whispering in the shadows. Their words were indistinct, but their orders seemed clear. I could handle it. I was strong. I could take it, I thought.

The poison, the work, and the whispering creatures — fantasy or not — were bringing me deeper into the forest, later and later at night. It was treacherous. I could fall asleep from the poison and wake up noticing tiny cuts, none enough to hurt on its own, but over time they made my skin itch and more exposed for more wounds.

My children were young, and I read them stories of the Wizard of Oz, about henchmen, chaotic and menacing, doing the Wicked Witch's bidding. It was a thrilling, scary fantasy made up in whispered reading after dark. Under cosy, warm duvets, we were safe, present, and in the moment. Little did I know at the time — I was living the story I was telling.


Returning to the forest, which kept growing thicker, stronger, and more willfully sinister, I found myself weeping in despair. It was the poison, the thousands of cuts, and the whispering that was wearing me down. The walls of the castle were falling into disrepair, the hallways grew quiet and cold, and the fires had gone out.

I used to think the wise monkeys chose silence out of integrity. I felt a strong sense of morals and values in my life, and would rather speak up than stay silent, to stay with my integrity. But sometimes I felt them staring back at me from the dark, and they were not how I had thought of them. I found myself whispering, "hear no lies, say no lies." But it was merely a whisper. I was walking with my hands in front of me, protecting myself from what I couldn't see. Confused, wounded, and impaired by the poisonous plants brushing against my skin, I felt the light go out — falling, unable to stop it.

When I came to myself, I was wet, cold, and groggy. My vision was blurry, and I could sense creatures scuffling away — pointing, sneering, retrieving — as though they were scared of me waking up. I was scared too, wounded, and far from home. They were monkeys, lurking in the trees, making indistinguishable noises. I drifted in and out of sleep, and I dreamt that they could fly. I dreamt about flying monkeys.


I woke in my own bed, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, a crushing feeling of guilt, regret, and hopelessness pressing down on me. I had seen them, as in a dream. I knew what was in the forest — the flying monkeys, with tiny sharp claws opening tiny cuts. I learned they couldn't hurt me anymore. They had turned more afraid of me than I was of them.

This wasn’t quick or easy to accept. I had found my way back to my integrity, deep inside. I had regained some strength, and hope-fueled knowledge was flowing through my system, flushing out the poison, replacing despair with purpose. The dream had turned to reality.

I was weak, but far away I could hear laughter — the echo of past joy, still lingering in the castle. A woollen thread of hope spun tightly, woollen hope, soft and itchy, warm and lovely. Without the source that had sent them, the flying monkeys had no power of their own. And that source, once seen clearly, had no real power any more. When the time is right, I might venture back into the forest and reclaim it, recapture, not to forget, but to grow. Stand strong, tall, and proud, as I once was.

I know who I am, and that is the power that drops a flying monkey to the ground.

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

Afterword:

For those who recognize the forest, the pain will not be lighter, but might get easier to carry. Don’t give up.