That Feeling
Sometimes it happens when I look up at
the sky. The clouds are 3-D paintings,
airbrushed on a canvas of royal blue,
with just a threat of thunder, some mild
promise of rain hiding somewhere in the
mix. Maybe the air is hot, like a
distant forgotten summer day, and I am
transported back to a time when I was a
little girl running wild and free
through the Florida brambles and
courting the nagual at the edge of the
black lake which nestled up close to the
house on the land where I grew up.
It's a feeling that's occasionally
evoked when storms are traveling outside
of time. Or when I am driving through
farm country surrounded by endless
groves of oranges or almonds or walnuts.
Groves where the trees grow together at
the top to form a canopy of shadows, an
unmarked doorway to the nagual, a
conduit to some past self. For a
moment, I am 7 again, gazing deep into
those groves to imagine what strange and
wondrous beings might be hiding there...
waiting for the little girl to come
kicking her way through fallen leaves
and the sweet scent of orange blossoms.
Not waiting to cause her harm - it was
a different world back then, when
children could run through groves or
forests with their imagination unfurled
like some crazy banner of undefined but
infinitely potent intent. No fear, but
wonder. No worries, but simply an
unbridled love affair with the unknown.
Tangible. Like a drumbeat felt in the
soles of the feet. Far more real than
stuffy textbooks or Sunday School
teachers, it was a genuine mind meld
with the sensuous fabric of the sentient
universe.
It was a time when anything could
happen. One might turn the corner at
the unmarked intersection of Mystery and
Imagination to find oneself in a world
of fairy lords or the elfin kingdom, or
even on board some wayward starship
passing through the neighborhood of a
Dream.
Sometimes I was gone for years, though
only moments had passed in the mortal
world.
At least that's how it seemed.
Magick was all around, there for the
harvesting, like the ripe fruit of early
summer, the bounty spawned by a personal
relationship with the ineffable, and
nurtured by a hardcore Knowing that
literally anything was possible if one
could simply believe it enough to call
it into being out of a desperate
love/hope/need for it to simply Be.
Yet, it is that simple. Yes, it is
that complicated. No, it is not
difficult. Yet, it is the hardest thing
you will ever do.
Some would say it's where invisible
friends come from. Others might say
it's a position of the assemblage point
where the child can simply see and
experience things which adults will no
longer permit themselves to see and
experience because of their agreement
with the Agreement. It is the place
where muses are spawned and courted -
with the unshakable Knowledge that muses
choose their mates for life and death
and all places beyond or in between. It
is the place where the double is created
out of unspoken wishes and the
unspeakable Knowing that the only way
out of the matrix will, at some level,
involve the ingredients of unconditional
love, altogether irrational beliefs, and
the spark of a lustful passion for life
to jumpstart its heart so that, in turn,
it may turn and jumpstart your own.
Some would say it cannot be reasoned
out.
That's okay.
It's a feeling. That feeling.
So easy and natural when we were
children, but a feeling we tend to
become distanced from as we grow older.
Silly, but the old song, Puff the Magic
Dragon always makes me cry, and I do not
cry easily. Puff still waits by the
sea, but the little boy has grown up,
grown older, and no longer has time for
the silliness of youth.
We
grow up, and yet in doing so, we grow
apart from our own magic, it seems,
until one day we find ourselves staring
deeply into the mirror, wondering who we
are, who we were, and how we might find
our way back to something that holds
just a tad more meaning than corporate
mission statements or what brand of
diapers to buy, or what we need to
remember to ask our doctors this week,
because clearly we are sick to the soul,
unable to maintain an erection, unable
to digest our food, plagued by the fungi
on our toenails and the cellulite on our
thighs and the fact that the guy next
door has a bigger car than ours and...
and...
By the time we realize we're running in
place, we've been going nowhere for so
long that it's hard to remember a time
when we thought we were headed toward
some grand destination of... what?
Success? Achievement? What does that
look like? Is it an island somewhere in
the Caribbean or a mansion in the
Hamptons? And, even if we were to
achieve those things, at some point
along the way, it begins to occur to us
that we can't really take any of it with
us, and so we either will it to
ungrateful children who will grow up,
grow old and make the same mistakes we
made, or it passes to the State, who
will sell it to line the pockets of
stuffy officials smoking cigars in dark
hallways while swapping slobber with
lobbyists and cronies.
It's all for naught. No exceptions.
If we're lucky, we wake up one day and
realize that, and then we set off on
this strange and wondrous quest for
knowledge... until we smack our heads
squarely on the realization that it was
something we possessed quite naturally
when we were children.
Aha.
That feeling. Now think about this, and
ask yourself a couple of questions.
When you encounter one of those "memory
triggers" - whatever it is that evokes
something from your childhood that is
bitter and sweet and alluring and
terrifying and perfect - do you find
yourself leaning
toward
it, or do you somewhat instinctively shy
away from it?
Most of the folks I've talked to about
this recently readily admit they will
shy away from it. When asked why, most
will mumble something about
"responsibility" or "obligations" or
whatever it is that keeps them rooted in
the (dis)comfort zones of their mundane
tonal existence. "It's too painful,"
is one thing I hear repeatedly.
Too painful? Hmmm.
When I hear this, something in me rises
up, rebels, tilts its head sideways like
a confused puppy, and says, "What the
hell is the matter with you?" And this
includes myself - because, at times, I
realize I have also shied away from
"that feeling" - until I began to
realize that the shying away is little
more than a preprogrammed response
handed to us by our parents, teachers
and other well-meaning folks who
encouraged us to "Grow up!" and "Get
with the program!"
So... I began experimenting with this
feeling again. Instead of automatically
listening to The Voice of Reason - which
touts such things as, "No time to dally
with the impossible when there is work
to be done in the real world!" - I
essentially gave it the middle finger
salute and gave myself permission to go
against all the rules and see the world
again through the eyes of that little
girl who not only believed in magic, but
who held the power to actually manifest
it (as all children can).
Instead of turning away from that
nostalgic feeling, I have decided to
visit Puff whenever possible, to lure
the sleeping dragon out of his cave, to
court the shadows of the nagual with the
fierce heart of a lover, and to dive
head-first into those dark groves with
the same fervor and passion I held as a
child. Even making the decision to do
that is fraught with voices from the
past. My mother: "You're only setting
yourself up for disappointment. The
only thing in that orange grove is
oranges!" My 10th grade physics
teacher: "Everything can be explained
rationally and logically, through
mathematics."
Bah.
So much of this path is learning to
unlearn the crap we have learned from
those who have sought to teach us
responsibility within an agreement which
is as insane as any street person
mumbling the beatitudes to themselves
while standing ankle-deep in their own
urine.
Today I will be irresponsible.
Today I will believe in magick and throw
my arms around the nagual even if it
devours me.
Today I will tell "the real world" to go
fuck itself and hand it an instruction
manual if necessary.
Today I will believe in fairies and
elves and trolls and dragons and
immortal vampires and Vulcans and Jack
Sparrow and whatever else is considered
to be altogether impossible and foolish.
Today I will embrace that feeling and no
longer run from it.
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal
Puff,
and brought him strings and sealing wax
and other fancy stuff. Oh
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Together they would travel on a boat
with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on Puff's
gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow
whene'er they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flags
when Puff roared out his name. Oh
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
A dragon lives forever but not so little
boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way
for other toys.
One grey night it happened, Jackie Paper
came no more
And Puff that mighty dragon, he ceased
his fearless roar.
His head was bent in sorrow, green
scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the
cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, Puff could
not be brave,
So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped
into his cave. Oh
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the
sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a
land called Honah Lee
Recorded by: "Peter, Paul, and Mary"
Written by: (Leonard Lipton, Peter Yarrow)
Album: "Moving" - 1962
Hear Peter, Paul, and Mary at nuTsie.com