Magic

WWKC Writing Prompt from last night:)

As far as I can tell, the magic moments in ordinary time can only be sourced through the stopping. Can only be felt in the pool at the bottom of an exhale. In the pause allowed when everything else has been pressed from psyche. Wrung and twisted like an old rag of our experience, previous. 

For to be awake to the magic means to put down all the other. 

All the elseness. 

The film of failures and loss and grief and worry. The coke bottle glasses of fear will keep you blind to the the feather under your foot. 

Sticking out from cut grass like a sword. 

A bone tapered down its center like a showy arc. Or a rainbow’s pull towards flight. Sacred wayfinder gifted from underlying forces 

that play and trick and dazzle and delight. 

Ordinary is never that. 

Unless, like I said, you choose it for your silver screen rotation. 

Magic is the connective tissue of life’s unfolding. 

Ever wandering and unpredictable. 

A nod, a wink, a reason, a wonder. 

A slip into another world. 

Where sacred is the only law that prevails. 

The magic moment is the way his fingers graze your spine. 

The want of tongues drifting over stars. 

Magic is the way you see it. 

Not what you see. 

It’s the twist of dream 

till the drops splash off your feet

and into who knows

and who cares

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