Hope and Magic

I've always been fascinated by the idea of magic, but I really haven't ever felt it to be real in my own life.  There's still a swath of me open to it, and like most people I practice sympathetic magic and superstition in small ways, at least.  But my belief in a concept as sweet as that seems mostly to be as witness, rather than as a participant.  I've seen my brother and sister-in-law touched in small ways by magic.  I've heard the most beautiful story of the spirit, from my grandmother.  I know magic is that aspect of spirituality we can't explain concretely ... but my life is pedestrian, and largely easy to explain.

The only spell I ever cast is by wearing some talisman in hope it can evoke some manner of blessing ... in praying ... in scenting my domain in perfume and candles ... in the things of the heart, speakable only between mine and X's, and most of those not even then.  Unlike many people, I've never seen magic in death, no special timing, no visions afterward.  I've never seen animal magic, really - as much as I am breath-taken by the power some of them contain.

Once, I had an experience of Christ, which to this day has held me in love.

But in this world, I practice hope, more than incantation.  Some hope is blessed with expectation; some with nothing more than the trembling magic of innocence, tenderly and shyly wished.  Most hope, of course, doesn't come to anything.

But the smart person knows how to cultivate the hope that can be realized.  To farm it, work it, expect harvest.  The domestication of magic.  The control of destiny.  The direction of will to what is attainable.

Perhaps this strips the ineffable of its luster.

But it does make for satisfaction.



I muse on this, because just now, setting out my things for tomorrow, I found myself indulging magic.  I put out my perfume.

I never wear perfume, except in those moments I need magic.  Which means I rarely put it on these days.  It's almost never part of my wardrobe for work - so seldom, I probably haven't worn it one day since starting the "new" (one year this Tuesday ... !) job.  I did wear a drop to church today, and still it haunts my skin so quietly.

For all I don't believe, as much as I believe in magic - I still find it romantic to court it.  To flirt and make myself open to magic.  There is a softness, a familiarity, a beauty ... and a hope.  Always, so many hopes.

If much of my hope is ambition - there is that in my heart so much more childlike.  Needing escape from the day-to-day.  Needing reassurance from G-d ... or my father ... or just that breeze I felt this morning, after church, talking with my dearest friend there ...

Romans says it - "For in hope we were saved" ...

Sometimes, the vulnerable, open part of myself just wants to remember how to let go ... and thereby be best served.