When I say I want the magic back, I mean the little things that, if we are aware, we see almost daily.
This morning, I sat in the shower thinking of such things. Once while driving west in Eugene, Oregon, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a rainbow brilliantly displayed in the rain splattered eastern sky. In front of that rainbow, like the movie intro of E.T. riding his bike in front of the moon, a small flock of white birds flew past, illuminated by the setting sun.
It was so exquisite I wanted to turn around, but I managed to tear my eyes away from the scene and continue down the road.
I look into the sky and see a 250-ton piece of metal —a heavier-than-air vehicle —carrying I don't know how many people, pushed through the air by jet engines the size of whisky barrels.
Impossible.
Once daughter dear and I sat in a booth by a window at a beloved Mexican Restaurant in Rancho Santa Fe, California. As we joyfully dipped our chips in guacamole, we lightly discussed whether it was possible to manifest. "Well,' I said," we couldn't manifest a train here for there are no tracks."
Not a minute later, a large semi—one of those trucks whose who’s back trailer is covered by a tightly stretched tarp, stopped at a stop light outside our window.
Printed on the tarp was one word: "Trane." (A technology company.)
We laughed, and often remind ourselves that miracles happen, and that the Universe likes to play tricks.
I sometimes lose the lightness and I want it back.
I missed Tuesday's blog yesterday, too, so I am writing to you today. I did read something profound yesterday, though. It was from Martha Beck:
"The simultaneous destruction and creation of an individual can be compared to the moment of awakening. This isn't just about learning something new; it's about a fundamental, radical shift in human consciousness.
"Awakening is the transformation of that same caterpillar into an altogether different creature—one that can fly."—Martha Beck.
You have heard that the caterpillar's metamorphosis into a butterfly isn't a simple change; it's a complete breakdown. That poor caterpillar liquefies, but what emerges is a gorgeous butterfly.
I have read that if you are watching the butterfly struggle to emerge from its chrysalis and feel inclined to help, don't. It kills the butterfly. The butterfly must go through the struggle—like us being born—it rests for a few moments, allowing its wings to dry, and then it soars.
"When a human being awakens," to quote Beck," the 'caterpillar' we leave behind is the part that fears, suffers, attacks others, grabs for power, wealth, and status, and lives in terror of its own destruction.
"The 'butterfly' we become is at peace with both life and death, confident that the universe will provide for us, open to brilliant creative ideas that may pull us out of the mess we've created."
Thanks, Martha.