Magic and miracles

I believe in magic and miracles. No, that’s blatantly untrue. If honesty is my policy, I don’t know why I kid myself into being a mystic. I’m not a mystic. I’m a realist and an idealist – fate is undeniable, work is better. It’s not about choosing the right turns in the path, it’s about creating the trail you hike, calling forth the stinging nettles that catch on your clothes and prick your shins as you brush by, bringing shape to the shady pine that allows you a moment’s quiet rest.

I want it all. I believe in it all – the possibility of it all. There is not one destination, one peak to hike to, but we meander through glorious meadows, traverse granite cliffs, pick our paths through dense forests. And each place is its own meaning. Each sight is new and divine. Divinity reigns not splashed from above, but soaked into the fiber of the roots, wafting carelessly through the quiet air. It is here. We are here. We find beauty in wildflowers, but the blackness of burnt wood is lovely too, if only because it is real and ours and seen. When you see, it is all yours. When you smell, it is with you. When you love, it is you. There is nothing bad or wrong, only the truth, always the truth, the way we put things together, two and two, our world, our rugged climb to anywhere in particular, our fate decided not as finality but as the experience. Will you be happy everywhere, or will you climb and never be satisfied with the humble rock, the dust rising in clouds, the simple tree – imperfect, like so many others, indescribable except in its absolute normalness – will you be OK with that? That is your fate. Are you OK with that? I’m OK with that.