I at times struggle to understood how it is that miraculous moments or every day magical occurrences can be taken for granted, feared, or mocked. Non explainable moments have carried me through this lifetime during my worst trials and have become crucial in the ways that I have learned to understand faith and the ability to endure.
The first clear moment of magic that I vividly remember experiencing was when I was a young child. An introverted, intuitive girl with a wandering soul, a fiery temperament, and a cracked heart.
The event unfolded in a subsidized tenement parking lot which masqueraded as a back yard. A depressing space filled with detritus and decay. Sorrow, blood, rot, and tears caked into the earth intermingled with trash, cigarette remnants, broken beer bottles and forgotten, faded, plastic playthings.
Patchworked across the terrain were a variety of different sized holes I had dug in the ground using kitchen spoons in place of shovels. My feeble attempt to escape into the earth. Pockets of varying sizes that formed puddles after a storm. Pools of shallow mud that unbeknownst to me created the perfect conditions for impending magic.
The day the miniature miracle occurred it had been raining for hours. I watched the water fall resentfully from the window as I waited and waited to go outside and resume my ditch digging efforts. After a while the rain subsided and I grabbed a kitchen spoon and headed out the back door.
I stared in awe at what awaited me.
Dozens and dozens of brightly colored, tiny bodies searching for and absorbing energy essential for their continued force of flight. I walked cautiously towards the quiet movement, a child surrounded by what looked like hundreds of wings fluttering gently in the very same holes I had created as an attempt to remove myself from reality, transforming my background prison into a beautiful place of wonder. My childhood innocence had been stripped far too soon, but not so removed that I refused to experience the undeniably miraculous moment of what appeared before me.
The closer I got the more I expected them to fly away, but that didn’t happen. They kept about their business as I sat down in the dirt and watched for what felt like a very long time. Eventually they began to ascend. Not all at once but at a leisurely pace, drifting softly up into the wind. I stood and watched them fly away, surrounded in light, love, and beauty. A mini cyclone of butterfly energy intertwined with mine.
These memories continue to inspire me today. That along with a yearning to heal and share the whispers of remembering. To reach others that experience wonder beyond pain. Others that know moments of fragility within a miracle. The hope of mending torn wings, of experiencing internal flight. The ability to believe in something greater than what can be minimized by explanation. To know that although there will always be times of immeasurable hurt, the companion to that is beauty and hope and the ability to recognize and honor mini moments of everyday magic.