October Stories
salt
Salt Is More Precious Than Gold
There are things we barely notice until they are gone.
Salt is one of them.
For centuries, salt has been so essential to human life that it was once traded like treasure. Long before the little shaker appeared on our tables, salt helped preserve food, flavor meals, and carry people through long winters.
Perhaps that is why an old European folktale tells a story about a king who had to lose salt before he understood its worth.
A wealthy king had three daughters, and one day he asked each of them the same question:
“How much do you love me?”
The eldest daughter answered, “More than all the gold and silver in the world.”
The second said, “More than the finest jewels and silks.”
But the youngest daughter simply replied,
“I love you as much as salt.”
The king was furious.
To him, gold was precious. Jewels were precious. Salt was something ordinary—something found in every kitchen. He believed his daughter had insulted him and banished her from the kingdom.
Then something strange happened.
The kingdom’s salt disappeared.
At first, no one was particularly concerned. The royal kitchens continued preparing their elaborate meals. But soon, everything changed.
The food was bland and unappealing. Bread lost its familiar flavor. Meat could no longer be properly preserved, and food began to spoil. Before long, something as ordinary as a pinch of salt had become more valuable than all the gold in the kingdom.
The king finally understood.
Gold could decorate a table, but it could not season a meal.
Jewels could be admired, but they could not preserve food for winter.
The things he had considered ordinary were the things his kingdom could not live without.
When his youngest daughter returned, she brought with her something very small:
A little sack of salt.
And suddenly, the king understood what she had meant all along.
Sometimes what is most valuable isn't what shines.
Sometimes it is what quietly makes everything else possible.
So this Thanksgiving, when you reach for the salt, perhaps pause for just a moment.
For something so ordinary, it has carried an extraordinary story through the ages.
Maybe the things we take for granted are worth noticing after all.
THE BLACK CAT
For centuries, black cats have been associated with mystery, luck, protection—and, depending on where you lived, prosperity.
In ancient Egypt, cats were deeply revered and associated with Bastet, the goddess of home, protection, fertility, and motherhood. Cats were valued members of the household, and harming one was taken very seriously.
Then there were the sailors. British and European seafarers often believed that having a black cat aboard a ship could bring good luck and help ensure a safe journey home. There was practical reasoning, too: cats kept ships free of mice and rats that could destroy food supplies and damage ropes.
And the folklore gets even more interesting.
In Scotland, a black cat appearing at your doorstep has traditionally been associated with prosperity. In Japan, black cats can symbolize good fortune, happiness, and even luck in love. And in parts of France, folklore held that treating a black cat kindly could bring wealth and good fortune.
So how did the black cat become a symbol of bad luck?
Maybe that's the real mystery.
Perhaps we've been telling the story backwards all along.
THE
THINNING OF
THE VEIL
The Thinning Veil
What if there's more to the world than what we can see?
For centuries, people have imagined a thin boundary between the world we experience and something beyond it.
Different cultures have given that unseen space different names, stories, and meanings.
Some believe the veil is thinnest at certain times of year. October, with its changing light, longer shadows,
and ancient traditions, has become one of the seasons most associated with the idea.
Maybe it's folklore.
Maybe it's intuition.
Maybe it's our intuitive inner knowing that what we see isn't the whole story.
But there is another way to think about the veil—not as a doorway to something frightening, but as an invitation to become more aware.
What if “thinning the veil” simply means becoming more open to what we normally overlook?
A feeling that arrives before an explanation. A coincidence that stops you in your tracks. A sudden idea that seems to come from nowhere.
A moment in nature that makes the world feel somehow larger.
Some spiritual traditions describe this as an awakening—a shift toward greater awareness and a deeper sense of connection.
\Whether you see that as energy, intuition, consciousness, or simply paying closer attention is entirely up to you.
THIN PLACES
There are certain places—and certain moments—that have long been thought of as places where the veil feels thinner.
Not necessarily because something supernatural happens there, but because they exist between one thing and another.
Where land meets water.
Where desert meets forest.
Where earth meets sky.
Mountaintops. Waterfalls. Caves. Natural arches. Places wrapped in fog or mist.
Even sunset—that brief, beautiful space between day and night.
Or the strange moment between sleeping and waking, when you're not quite in one world or the other.
Perhaps that's what makes these places feel different.
They are transitional.
They ask us to pause.
And maybe that's the real mystery.
Why do certain places make us feel more present? Why does standing beside the ocean at dusk, looking
out from a mountaintop, or walking through a forest in the mist sometimes create a feeling that is difficult to put into words?
Is it the landscape?
The light?
The quiet?
Something happening inside our own minds?
Or could there be something more?
We don't have to decide.
Maybe the veil isn't a doorway at all.
Maybe it's found in the places where one thing becomes another—where ocean becomes shore, day becomes night, earth meets sky.
Maybe these are simply places that invite us to become still.
And perhaps when we become still enough, we notice things we normally move too quickly to see.
Have you ever been somewhere that felt like a thin place?
Somewhere the world seemed quieter. More alive.
Somewhere you noticed something you might have missed anywhere else.
Maybe the veil isn't something we cross.
Maybe it's simply where we become still enough to notice.
