A Little Bit of Magic

I sat outside and disconnected. Then reconnected to another world. The world around me. Being outside changes everything. I never realized this before. Like a muscle that has atrophied and then suddenly regains its strength. Like a part of me was dead – a limb hacked away and regrown by the kiss of the sun and the breath of the wind. Something stirs in me.

Too often I feel hollow, living a life I don’t want. Lost in a lie. Glimmers of the truth surface, glinting when the light hits just right, but mostly, a glamer. Beneath it there is something else. Primal, raw, passionate, beautiful, but caged. I find it in incredible, visceral moments. In those moments I feel so alive. I never thought that I felt dead – disconnected, until I feel these moments and realize what I’m missing. Almost like a hypersensitive state, a heightened state where I feel more in tune with the world around me. Such an odd sensation, but I find myself craving it more and more. It’s as if I get drained by the things going on around me, and then when I have these moments of connection I get recharged. As if I am tapping into some incredible reserve of power. Energy. Life.

Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by those sensations. What an incredible feeling. I want to write it all – to jot down every sound, sight, scent, feeling, and sensation. The colors, the textures, the emotions they bring to life. The strings they pull within. I want to be lost within it.

I want to be caught up in the wind, soaring everywhere it goes. To hear the windchime symphonies at every home, the music of the wind in every nation. To feel how it stirs the people, the places, the life across this vast and beautiful place.

I know that I’m feeling it, but I know at some point, you’ve felt it too, or something similar somewhere. It’s like magic for me. I can almost feel it eddying in places, pooling about here or there waiting to be seen. To be felt. To be inhaled. In those moments I want nothing more than to breathe it in. To revel in it. Washing over me and getting lost in that experience.

It’s everywhere. Literally almost everywhere, and to me that’s just mind-boggling. Sometimes I feel like that’s where the magic really comes from. Where stories are born. Where ideas take shape. These little pockets of magic and power dance about us, if we only open our eyes. In the wilderness, in the city, in a car, in a school. It’s always there, it just feels a little different. I think that magic…is life. A gift from God.

The feeling of the wind rushing by, rustling the limbs and leaves on the trees. The haphazard music of the collection of wooden chimes about me, the ringing of the solitary metal chime in their midst. Cars whir by in the distance. The impossibly loud sounds of insects so small, so close, and yet so far away.

The rush of excitement, laughter, and shouting of a playground full of kids at recess. Rubber chips flying, a jumbled mess of arms and legs and bodies weaving through the bars and metal and plastic and grass.

The throng of faces, fashion, gossip, chattering and footsteps wandering about the shopping mall. Watch, you’ll see it. That excitement when the perfect item is found. The slow, relaxed flow of meandering browsers, not on a hunt, content just to look, but with that muted undercurrent of longing. The buzz of the food court, blazing with scents, and sounds, and all manner of folks conglomerating in one place. So many conversations murmuring at once. So many tastes. All tangled up in one massive breath of energy.

A huddle of folks sitting around a campfire. Storytelling engrossing them all. Bursts of laughter fire off in spurts. Eyes caught up in the flickering flames and the glow of the coals. That smoky smell that lingers on your sweatshirt after you leave, triggering those memories once more.

The bustle of the city streets. People intent on finding their destination. They’re all busy. Each has somewhere to go, something to do. Eyes focused, gait determined – they’re on their way. Cars rush by in flashes of color and exhaust and headlights. They weave this way and that across broken yellow lines. Images played in the eyes, mirrors, and windows all around.

Torrents of experience.
A beautiful magic.


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