Where's the Magic?
Finding light in the midst of grief
I want to write about light and how it can show up when I most need it. I want to write about the numinous light that sometimes stems from the dusky shadows of grief.
When I was a child, I loved to discover pockets of light hidden within everyday objects. One such source was a glamorous faux-emerald ring owned by my Mother. I would pester her incessantly until she agreed to let me wear it for brief periods of time, “Only around the house,” she would emphasize, “and only if you promise not to lose it.”
I would curl up with the coveted treasure, squinting at it up close with one eye and then the other, awed by the light-induced fractals and prismatic fountains. It felt as though I had discovered a secret world tucked inside this one - conjured only by curiosity and the precious ring; my little green emissary of magical things.
Upon returning the ring to my Mother, I would wander out into the back yard in search of more treasures, more light, more magic. It didn’t take long to find it lingering there in the garden, nestled in velvety flower petals, iridescent droplets, dangling crimson cherries.
When I was seven, my sister and I received matching gold two-wheeler bikes. On overcast days they looked like any other bicycle, but when the sun emerged - oh my! The golden paint shimmered, instantly transforming them into something mystical. We wove up and down the sidewalk in front of the house for what seemed like hours; me, a goddess on my gleaming stallion and she, a queen on her blazing chariot.
Years later when I worked at a children’s hospice, I had a recurring dream of a mother holding her baby. In each dream, the child would turn to look directly at me and, in a playful (yet invitational) tone, say: “Where’s the magic?” I took it as a sign from my wise subconscious to seek out mystery, as a balm to counter the unbearable weight of grief.
Even now, on the most challenging of days, I stop to notice sparkles on water, glimmers in gardens, rainbows beaming from crystals. Funny how something as simple as intention can invite nourishment to nudge itself into being.
It’s also true that on certain days light is not so easily attainable. Sometimes, it can dwell in a parallel periphery, sensed but not seen. Other times, it can feel as though it is utterly absent from everything.
Over the years, I’ve discovered different flavors of light,
just as I am discovering the various shapes and textures of grief.
There’s a thin, tinny light that is easily conjured from superficial happenings - and a more substantial light that illuminates deeper wants and needs. There’s a discerning light that cautions me not to be vulnerable in certain company - and a warm, permissive light that entices me into safer circles of story.
There’s a liquid light that turns pent-up sorrow into flowing tributaries - and an alchemical light that transmutes power from murky darkness. There’s a marrow-ish light that arises from the bedrock of suffering, and a deep foundational light that can accompany anything.
Last night the coyotes yipped and howled as the sky gave way to warm summer air, darkening. I stopped what I was doing to step outside, marinating in the soundscape of their primal presence. I wondered if others paused too, ears perked, trying to capture hints of a wisdom they once knew, yet had somehow forgotten.
The coyotes were a visceral reminder that wildness exists, right here (just across the channel) on that thin stretch of river-soaked soil and leafy trees. Far enough to be buffered from the realm of human wanting, yet near enough to be touched by the drone of our digital chatter and indecipherable utterings.
What is real and what’s illusory?
What is temporary and what’s enduring?
What constitutes connection?
Touching into this deeper dome of creation releases a residue of wild knowing. Or maybe it was here all along - like the DNA embedded in everything. Perhaps it’s all just patiently waiting to be noticed: Like the rainbows ensconced in crystal, the prism at the heart of the emerald, the love at the centre of my grief.
Can we incline the mind to other ways of seeing? Can we ask ourselves, without want or expectation: What nourishes me? Where’s the magic? What else longs to be seen?
