Sunday, March 11, 2012

Connections & Magic

When I was seven, eight, nine, I used to sneak outside of my bedroom window in what I thought was the middle of the night but probably was more like the daring hour of 9 o'clock. The window was close to the grass of our backyard, and I'd slide easily out and make my way to a bush or a tree and sit down, pretending. I was an Indian girl, I was a fairy, I was a wolf. And I had an innate belief in the power and connections of Nature. To me, magic was: wind, snow, rain, mountaintops, waterfalls, rivers, fields, forests, deserts, outer space. Magic was connection.

As I grew I carried with me a strong sense that there was some kind of connectivity to the world- even during the time of my life when I felt most alone, lonely and disconnected. I could still feel the pulse of life around me, and I knew I walked through the same river of time as everyone around me, if they knew my name or not.  Small things emboldened my sense of magic: I could 'cure' my headaches by placing my fingertips on my head and letting the pain find it's way out there, when the phone rang I knew who was calling, when driving up to a home I could feel the mood of the person inside. Once I drove up to an AA meeting- I went for a few years as a teenager- and I knew without a doubt that a boy I had not seen in months was sitting inside of the room that I could not see. His car wasn't out front, I hadn't seen his friends- there was no reason for me to feel this. But I did, and he was even sitting exactly where I felt he would be. As an adult I've known every time I was going to live somewhere. I've walked up to the doorstep, and immediately known. Yes, including this place we live in now- even though when I first saw it, I believed we had no chance of renting it, we had no deposit to afford it, and it was much to perfect in many ways to be in our range, and even though when we did apply, the realty broker dragged her feet so intermedibly that we had all but given up and were looking elsewhere when we got the call. With every place I've known I would live there. Our last house, as soon as we entered the back door and I saw the kitchen I knew. This place, I didn't even go inside and I knew. I get a flash, an image or our family living in the home- in the last house, it was an image of bathing Lola in the tub- and the rest is paperwork.

The most beautiful example of this kind of connectivity is a story I've told my daughter a few times: I was in my early twenties, it was midnight or later, and I had driven by myself to the edge of a canyon where I had spent some childhood years playing. Sobbing in my cold car, smoking a cigarette but stone cold sober,  miserable and lost and afraid, I begged someone, truly with my whole heart- putting my energy into it, consciously- to send me a sign. A shooting star, I said out loud. Please send a shooting star. And the blank and silent night sky at that exact moment sent one enormous, singularly beautiful shooting star straight down the left side of my vision. I stopped crying immediately, straightened up, said thank you, and drove home to my baby son and my mother.

And then tonight. 

Putting Flux Capacitor in order, I am going through every single post I've ever written, deleting ones that are blank drafts, correctly labeling others. I came across the series of posts I wrote when I became pregnant with the baby that Mr. Curry and I lost. As I looked, I noticed one about an ultrasound at around 11 weeks. And I clicked here. And I saw the most amazing thing. The baby we lost was due to be born on the exact due date and birthday of our Ever Elizabeth Ethridge Curry. Ever wasn't even DUE to be born on this date. She was actually due in November. But she came the due date of her brother or sister who couldn't make it here to be with us. And I cried, reading that due date in it's big bold letters. I cried because I felt the same sense of comfort and wonder I did when that shooting star lit itself across the canyon night sky. 

And then while randomly clicking around, I read Rebecca's post about magic.  And I thought Could anything be a more perfect ending to this chain?

Only, connect.

Love,
Maggie


Petit fleur said...

Yes. Connection is all we really have when it gets right down to it. I'm just learning to try to spin all of my connections for good... even the ones i don't like or find annoying.

This consciousness of process is new to me. I totally understand the goosbumpy feeling of having signposts be significant and irrefutable, if only to you. (Or whomever is getting the sign)

Love you and they way you put your heart and mind together to make poetry out of just about anything.
xo

CitricSugar said...

It is amazing how the universe cannot always give us what we want, but somehow finds a way to provide for what we need.

Occidental Girl said...

Amazing synchronicity! How sweet and comforting.

krista said...

sometimes i look at the connections of things and think it's just in my head. other times i am so disconnected i can't even feel my instincts. it's like they're asleep.

(oh, and i had a hard time commenting on the new site. had to backtrack to your 'homepage' and then click on comments. if i was on the actual post, i couldn't post anything. just an fyi. no biggie, really.)

rhoadworks said...

I so enjoyed this article. Mainly because it sounded so familiar. Being an identical twin has given me a lifetime of under the radar connection with my sister.
I think everyone has the ability to heighten their insight. They have to practice listening with their minds and hearts along with their ears.
Keep up the good work..

karen gerstenberger said...

What a gift to you. I'm so glad that you found this and made the connection. Blessings to you.

Deb Colarossi said...

I so get you in this.
And it's not always a comforting sense of things to be, but life isn't always , is it?
I read every word of yours everywhere, just so you know.
I'm struggling to keep up with commenting though.
I don't always share as openly as you do Maggie... but you do write my heart so much.
I am grateful that you read me, slant though I write.

Annie said...

Beautifully written, Maggie. Thank you for sharing this.

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