quote du jour ~gaiman

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art—write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

~Neil Gaiman

 

black holes and stepping into the unknown

I don’t have a lot of brain power left tonight. Like millions of other procrastinators, I’ve been working on my taxes most of the day. But I was determined to post something (anything!) tonight before I went to bed, so here goes.

The last six months or so have been marked by many blessings and some unexpected challenges. If you’d told me 18 months ago that I’d be where I am, doing what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have believed you. The thing is, I have a pretty strong feeling that 18 months from now, I’m going to be surprised at where I’ll be then, too. Don’t ask me why. It’s one of those feelings. I’ve had them before, and (at least when I’ve paid attention and recognized them for what they are) they’ve usually been pretty right on.

Mind you, these feelings are pretty vague—not anything you can really hang your hat on. Which makes it a little hard to talk about them to most folks. When my husband and I split up, for example, I pretty much fell into a black hole when it came to knowing what to do next. It was the first time in my life that I didn’t know what was next. Up until then, I had always known what was next. Not that I had a plan or anything; the next thing just showed up (this is another story entirely).

But back to the black hole. Continue reading

quote du jour ~lamott – what a mess we are…

What a mess we are, I thought. But this is usually where any hope of improvement begins, acknowledging the mess. When I am well, I know not to mess with mess right away; I try to let silence and time work their magic.

~Anne Lamott, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith

quote du jour ~hartmann

Just because you don’t know how on Earth something might be achieved doesn’t mean you shouldn’t allow yourself to really, really want it. That’s the essence of a dream, the realms of magic and of miracles.

~Silvia Hartmann

excerpt du jour ~mccammon

You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present and into the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.

After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.

That’s what I believe.

The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It’s like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you “sir.” It just happens.

These memories of who I was and where I lived are important to me. They make up a large part of who I’m going to be when my journey winds down. I need the memory of magic if I am ever going to conjure magic again. I need to know and remember, and I want to tell you.

~Robert R. McCammon, Boy’s Life

quote du jour ~de lint

I do believe in an everyday sort of magic — the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of synchronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.

~Charles de Lint

quote du jour ~roberts

Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars? Anyone who has loved has been touched by magic. It is such a simple and such an extraordinary part of the lives we live.

~Nora Roberts

the heart’s path

I still find myself in a place of pushing words away. I’ve done no writing to speak of, and I keep setting books aside unless they speak of the things for which words are hard to find. I’ve done a lot of walking lately, and I’ve found myself turning to music instead of books, especially the kind of music that grabs you by the heart and reaches into your soul, into the places that have no words. I’m feeling for feelings, for magic and wonder, for parts of me that have been covered up for a long time and for reasons no longer important. I’m often solitary these days, yet somehow feel more connected than ever to the world and the people around me. I feel joy and contentment and peace and love a lot of the time, which is a new—and lovely—way of being for me. Most importantly, I’m glad to be here, exactly where I am, eager for what’s around the corner, even though I have no idea what’s ahead on my path.

Thank you, dear readers and friends, for traveling with me as I find my way. I wish you joy and peace and contentment and love, too. Namaste.

excerpt du jour ~ ban breathnach

Waiting is one of the great arts.
~Margery Allingham

Until recently, I’ve shared T. S. Eliot’s approach to waiting. “Hurry up please it’s time.” But it never is time for the waiting to be over, until it’s time.  No matter how much wringing of the hands, crying, begging, or bargaining we do, the waiting will continue until it’s damn good and ready, which is rarely soon enough.

It’s been my excruciating experience—over and over—that the torture of waiting only ceases after you’re no longer consciously aware that you’re waiting. You stop jumping every time the phone rings, stop checking your e-mail every half hour, stop pacing up and down until the post arrives. Exhausted, you loosen your grip on the situation. Why? Because you’ve given up, that’s why. Lost hope. Let go. Licked your wounds and moved on. Call it what you will, you’ve detached yourself from the final outcome, as the enlightened would say. But what malarkey that sounds like when you’re driven half mad with desire. Continue reading