Magic

When I say the word ‘Magic,’ what I mean is not to describe an impossibility or a supernatural power. Magic is the mystery of all this, the way life unfolds in front of us, and the infinite number of ways we can participate in that unfolding. When I choose what kind of magic to create in myself, I feel the grace and softness of a magnificent unfurling. An act that is so vast, it feels a miracle I am not yet crushed by it all. I wonder at the nature of this enormous life and how it can still be so delicate and so forgiving. 

In a world where our myth and meaning-making practices have lead us places we could have never expected to go, it’s important to remember the real magic of those practices. When we approach our lives full of screens, artificial light, and manufactured goods, we can remember that even artificial things are a part of our fiction. They are just another story, and still a story we get to decide how to tell for ourselves. 

16 September 2024

The power is out in my neighborhood. I drove home in the dark and the rain, sat in the driver's seat of my car in the driveway until the rain completely slowed. When I gather my things, I unlock the front door to be greeted by our living room lit by candles. Eventually, my roommates blow out the flames and head to bed, so I tread softly into the kitchen for a snack that doesn't make up for not eating dinner. 

I sip chocolate milk, standing in the dark and listening to the absence of light. I'm struck by the sea foam green glow of the living room ceiling, covered in handmade constellations. The entire time I've lived in this house, I've meant to block the across-the-street lamp light so these stars would be more visible. My friends don't understand why I'd want it to be so dark inside. It hadn't occurred to me that it's funny - I want so badly to dim the artificial night lights so I can see the artificial stars instead… 

When I noticed the absence of street lights, I scan the houses across from us. I see our neighbors living room flickering in soft orange. I don't know their names, I only remember how they decorated for Christmas last year. I wonder if they saw our lights tonight, too. I wonder if they've ever noticed our lights in the dark before. 

I was asked today to consider a privilege I hadn't previously identified. It felt silly at the time, but my first thoughts were of the sky I grew up under.  It was filled with creatures whose names and songs I knew by heart. They mesmerized me, turned me into a listener, an augur, a singer. Those skies were expansive beyond my dreams… with the sunrise blazing through gold-yellow curtains in summer, scorching the grasses into the same hues. With the moon’s winter halo shimmering through endless threads of black silk. 

It must be the stars I miss the most. A blessing so numerous I'd forgotten I might still aspire to count them. The year I graduated from high school it was estimated that only 20% of North Americans can see the milky way from their homes. I was one of those people - we watched meteor showers from the driveway. I only had to visit home to see the northern lights, even this year. 

In thinking today about myself as a storyteller, as a soul in a human body, I know I want to be truthful, above all. And of course, helpful, beautiful, and bountiful as well. But

I realized as:

I feel defeated by another day of being dazzled by and reeling from the wonders and wounds of modernity

I gaze at the tiny stars in my living room whose light I want to protect

I find solace in a rare moment of external quiet

I am again blessed to know the light in all the ways I do

that what I crave in this world, what I hope I learn and teach as long as I am myself in it, the seed I want to sow in the heart of this perfectly empty moment, what I most want of my magic is to be gentle.