The books in your library will tell you that these miniature doors found all over Ann Arbor in Michigan are a local form of installation art. But for those of us who love a bit of magic—and this may well include some who appear entirely pragmatic on the surface—the fairy doors of Ann Arbor open into a magical world of…well, fairy-folk. A professor of Particle Physics first told me about these doors, delight writ large across his otherwise serious face. Then the academic year commenced; with students’ papers and research proposals to grade, and deadlines whizzing past, the tale was forgotten. Until, on a recent weekend stroll to Zingerman’s for a mug of their delectable cocoa with whipped cream, and across the street to a whimsical store named “Catching Fireflies” to buy some kitchen cloths, I spotted a fairy door quietly tucked away against a wall. One of the whimsies of this store is a purple contraption in the garden that blows out bubbles, and it seems apt that the fairy door should have been discovered in a moment when there were giant flowers, and wood carvings of birds and butterflies, and bubbles magically floating about.
It is indeed wondrous to imagine that these tiny painted wooden doors, set on the floors of homes, stores, or even in the hollows of trees, bridges, and other buildings, might lead into the secret and invisible homes of fairies. Imagine an entire subterranean world, hidden from human eyes, and peopled by ethereal sprites, hardworking elves, goblins filled with mischief, the pixies, the gnomes. Fairy doors are strewn everywhere around Ann Arbor, if you just remember to look closely. There is one at the Peaceable Kingdom, where you can even peer into the supposed living room of fairies, and another at a popular coffee shop downtown. My students told me of one at the Michigan Theater—we will look for it tomorrow—and another, wonderfully, at the children’s hospital, to fill their baby hearts with hope.
The urban folklore around fairy doors reminds me of childhood, the storybooks whose pages led us away from schoolwork, through moats of medieval castles, to faraway islands and enchanted gardens. Many languages, holding the key to multiple, often overlapping, worlds: roopkatha in Bangla, sonar kathi-ruporkathi, golden and silver wands, the Chandamama magical tales in Hindi, Blyton’s very English Adventures of the Wishing Chair and my favourite fairy, Chinky the Pixie. Reading those delightful fairy-tales of Cinderella, Snow-white, Rapunzel, and their prince-heroes; afterwards, teaching oneself that a girl does not need a prince to rescue and elevate her, because she can be her own hero. The Midwestern tradition of placing pennies outside fairy doors for little feet to step out happily and collect them—happy fairies are said to bless the home, bringing prosperity and laughter—reminds me of the Bengali tradition of painting Goddess Lakshmi’s exquisite feet before Lakshmi puja for prosperity. As children, there was such joy in being handed a bowl of rice paste to draw little feet outside doors and in dark places.
The poet Nida Fazli once wrote “Bacchon ke chhote haathon ko chaand sitaare chhoone do, chaar kitaben padh kar yeh bhi hum jaise ho jaenge (Let the small hands of children reach for the moon and stars; after reading a few books, they will become [jaded] like us). In Upstream, her collection of essays, poet Mary Oliver writes: “Teach the children. We don’t matter so much, but the children do. Show them daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones—inkberry, lamb’s quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones—rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets when they go to school…” Imagination and a sense of wonder can be beautiful—for children, and for the child in each of us—if used for personal and collective good. There is a fairy-door in my home too, tucked away among the books, furniture, and other artefacts of modern living. But to find a fairy, one must believe.