Really, Really
Magick in the Mundane
It’s weird, this silence. The zippers on the clothes in the dryer clank in the tank as it spins and huffs its hot breath. The dishwasher swishes as it spits high-pressure water over dirty dishes. The air conditioner hums as I wrap myself in a soft, pink blanket to cozy myself from the cold. Or the emptiness. You decide.
But, in spite of the background sounds, there are no children laughing. There is no one asking for food. There is no YouTube Kids playing in the background in the chaotic conjunction of three Nintendo Switch games competing to steal the quiet. There is no seven-year-old girl asking if she can have a foot bath and play with the water toys.
No one is here to enjoy the splash of the swimming pool in the middle of a hot summer — the swimming pool I insisted on having access to — for them — when I moved into this apartment.
Somewhere in this quiet misery is magick in the mundane. Enlightenment sneezes. Small mystic and cryptic truths trying to seep into and out of my soul.
A gentle knocking and a sweet little voice beckoning, “Let me out. Let me in. Play with me.”
I hear whispered giggles in the silence.
I walked to the package room yesterday. It was the first time in ten days that I’d left the apartment at all. Neither the front or back doors — or windows — have opened to allow in fresh air.
Stale.
Something meaningful is happening in this quiet calm.
In this womb with the hint of a heartbeat.
When I came back, I accidentally smiled at my front door with its enchanted wreath bedecked in moss, mushrooms, and crystals. On the floor in the entryway is a doormat that says, “Welcome. No, just kidding, go away, I’m reading.” And it has a picture of a dragon with a book. On the inside of the door is a hanging that says, “Be yourself, unless you can be a dragon. Then, always be a dragon.”
On the back entryway is a doormat that says, “Here there be dragons.”
I used to believe in faeries and dragons. I mean really, really believed in them, and there is a piece of glitter buried in the depths of my numbed soul trying to sparkle just enough to let me know that the belief, the magick, is still there — if only I’d take a moment to look.
I mean, really, really look.
And as I type that, the tears come. Oooh, the tears come.
But why? Are they here because I’m sad? Are they here because I’m lonely?
Or, more likely, are they here to remind me that I am still me? Somewhere buried deep beyond my woman-scorned facade, beneath the hardened shell life forced me to calcify, beneath those brick walls keeping everyone at bay, there is still an innocent girl who knows, not thinks, but really, really knows that it’s okay.
I’m okay. Not in the “I’m always okay” bad-ass wounded warrior “I can survive anything” kind of way, but really, really glowing and shining and thriving and begging me to pay her some attention.
Soft.
Gentle.
Inviting.
Once upon a time, my magick flourished. My children remember. They miss that version of me. They remind me that it’s here in the silence — Here. In the silence — the opportunity to let my inner alarm clock ring loud enough to rattle my essence from fear-based, depressed slumber.
From my spiritual coma. From my mental misery.
I’ve hit snooze long enough.
It’s time to wake up, stretch into my skin, and begin to live again.
Because all I ever needed
was that one
tiny
sparkly
piece of
glitter.
There is magick in the mundane.
Enlightenment sneezes of little truths, speaking in big ways.
I can hear whispers of giggles
in the silence.
