I believe in magic. Not the way I did when my love for Disney prompted be to permanently print a the enterprise’s prized possession— Mickey — on my ribs. The magic I believe in now came to me through a hail storms of honesty.
Honesty of self, facing the dementors you’ve been using your nightlight to hide from all your life. Honesty of wants, needs that for the first time are no longer selfish — but a realized right. Making an honest promise to yourself that you — may just be — worth everything you’ve were told wasn’t “for you.”
What if — for a moment — we all pretended to believe in magic. The possibility of proverbial pixie dust, and the promise of conquering summits you thought to be unscalable. The first time I believed in magic, came after a cat. 5 hurricane of dementors the tore our world to pieces.
It was a level neither of us had unlocked. Definitely not one either of us was prepared for. We “hunkered” down, for a storm only we could feel.
There it was. Darkness, truth, and ego; a swirling vortex of truth, lightning bolts striking at our hearts, and love — with an inarguable gravitational pull — at the epicenter of it all. Thankfully not a single fatality.
We faced our dementors, as the stormed the gates of our own sacred castle. The magic didn’t come from spells. It came from a pressure cooker of growth. The magic was not that of fairy tales, warlocks or witches, the magic was the power of love amidst the roaring clouds above.
Weighing us to the eye of the storm was the knowing that magic might be real. That love is the most powerful patronus. Amidst ghastly winds, ripping roaring on a one way mission of destruction, was unconditional love.
Though there was debris to be disposed, the weekend after the storm, was when I could see the magic — that kept us from the clutches of the clouds — clearly for the first time.
He was deep into his work flow, tucked away comfortably in his office. I needed to be outside. I stood in our front yard, with a cup of coffee that has become a daily self love ritual. Kira pounced through the yard, practicing her lizard hunting abilities.
The yard that we transformed on step at a time, from concrete/rock, to dirt to lush great lawn. It sucked. It’s also one of my favorite memories. We would wait until it got cool enough, I’d strap on my gardening gloves he has gifted to me. We shoveled, on scoop at a time, over two weeks.
Then time to sod. We spent a day, with pop-punk blaring and an assembly line laying one — piece — at a time. Every time I sit in our yard I’m reminded of the first real challenge we encountered together.
I twisted my heels into the ground and tried to find my “power position.” I pushed my feet into the grass, and lit up every muscle from head to toe. With the largest breathe I had taken in days. I looked up to the sunshine, eyes closed, absorbing the warmth like an electric charge.
I prayed. Really prayed for the first time in a long time.
“God [insert whichever God you believe in], I choose him. With everything in me, I choose him. But I can’t do that unless you’re on my side. I need your support — I choose him.”
No sooner do these words cross my mind that the hooman walks outside with a bright, “Babe! Where were you I was looking for ya!”
I snap out of my warm, sunny-daze, and gesture for him to “come here.” He knows what this means.
He turns his back to the sun, and wraps his — very impressively growing arms — around my head, as a burry my face in the man-fur I’ve come to find as my safe place.
I start again with deeper breaths than I thought possible. Now with the first draft of an inner monologue I didn’t even know I had.
“I realize now, right now in this moment, that I haven’t been able to accept the love he’s offered me because I do not love myself. From this point forward I accept the love he’s giving me, because I’m worth it. Because I love who I am —“
My river-stream of thoughts was stopped in its tracks as I felt a familiar kiss on my forehead.
A kind of kiss that Mama B, and I, have always reserved for the most special of humans.
I look up, and involuntarily to the left.
There is not 1, nor 2 but 8-10 dragonflies hovering in perfect formation staring at us. I laughed — and like the sap I am — burst into a tears.
Magic isn’t for fairytales, or folk-lore. It is there to remind us of why the dementors are so important to our stories. The dark clouds, stormy days and destructive downpours are only negative if you allow them to be.
At the end of the day, the force holding all of it together is love. It’s amidst these storms that we learn the most lush lessons of life. It’s when the winds of worry are the loudest, that appreciate solace in silence. While it may seem gloomy, behind those clouds is a warmth; a battery charged with hope, truth and belief of self.
If you don’t already, try this year to believe in your magic a little bit more everyday. When the storm brews, and inevitably strikes, you will be more prepared than ever. You will no longer ask why is this happening “to me,” you will wonder “what’s the lesson,” followed naturally by “bring on the pop quiz.”
Fall in love with the possibility of magic. Watch as the storms transform from catastrophic, to consciously cataclysmic. Approaching every opportunity for growth with fearless regality, knowing that love, and warmth, is at the center of it all.