We Are Not Alone

Some thoughts on the nature of magic

There is a tendency in all things that move, to follow the path of least resistance. In humans it is has come to have our choices laid out by brand; there to be milked for our cash.
This tendency has been so homogenised that the green-haired guy I see at the station, wearing the Slitherin T-Shirt, undoubtedly believes himself a rebel; a non-conformist.

Sometimes, if we are quiet or alone, we can experience the magic in the woods; faces in the bark; tree spirits in our peripheral vision.
I look at this tree and I see her history: her arms once extended low over the ground allowing squirrels and other creatures access to the protection of her dense foliage.
Men came and lopped her low branches; made her reach higher; forced her to reinvent herself, the scars of her rebirth are faces of anguish perhaps.

There is a strong human tendency to indulge in wishful thinking.
Wishing that magic powers exist and subsequently believing that magic does exists (It does, it does, it does) until we become convinced that all we need is to believe; to have faith.
If wishing and believing ever did bring anything in to being then that certainly would be magic; but it doesn’t work like that.
Magic does exist, but not through faith; and not quite as abracabra dramatic as you overgrown Harry Potter fans would have it, and it most certainly doesn’t allow us to make something happen that simply cannot happen.
Magic exists in music.
Music influences how we feel, how we see the world; evokes memories and ideas; urges us shake ourselves in dance; and we don’t understand quite how it does that, so it’s magic.

Magic exists in poetry:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of the easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Browning

Like music, poetry uses the power of words to evoke, it talks directly to the mind while bypassing the normal rules of language; seeking the unconscious; releasing the magic.
But there is a tendency in humans to follow the path of least resistance; to have their choices laid out by brand; where they can be milked for their cash; a tendency that has been so homogenised that the green-haired person at the station, wearing the Slitherin T-Shirt undoubtedly sees himself as a rebel; a non-conformist.
The magic is lost in the brand.

I picture my life as a tree made of pipes that are fed from a tank at the top containing a predetermined volume of water.
Down the centre, the trunk, the largest pipe, encourages the water to take the shortest route into the inevitable gutter at its base.
On investigation, I discover that I can divert the water flow by a means of valves situated at every fork.
Thus I can control the path of the water; determine through which branch, or how many different branches the water will flow, I cannot stop the downward flow, but I can have the water explore as many branches as my efforts will allow.

Photos by P.I.