My daughter is getting her college degree in acting in New York City, and it fills me with endless delight to hear about her curriculum.“How was school today?”“It was great! We went to the Central Park Zoo.”“The zoo? Why?”“To pick out an animal.”“To pick out
Today I finally understood why Cinderella was transported into a magical realm by a pumpkin. I can’t believe these big round orange magical things grow from tiny seeds into sprawling vines and then sprout these incredible fairy tale globes, the very essence of growth and
I guess the point is that, even now, a million years later, books are my Orient Express, my journey into the Sultan’s Palace, my feet slipped into the upturned toes of a genie’s slippers, and my three wishes involve more books, the kind that feel like catching magic by the tail and making it into a kite, the kind that change minds and nourish souls, and of course, living, passionately, wildly, softly, and always always always, living “by heart.”
Everyone copes with the sorrows of the world in different ways– for me, I choose to play in what I call “a glitter cyclone,” aka my Magic Treehouse camp.
I’ve written before how death and divorce can make holidays especially piercing, seeing everyone with their loved ones when so many of mine are now gone.
This is the first Easter in 6 years that didn’t feel like I was being stabbed with 1,000 tiny pins all day long.
I wondered why the feelings changed. Was it time? People love to say, “time heals all wounds,” but I have not found that to be true for me. In my experience, some wounds never heal.
I miss my beloveds all day every day. The pain remains, as big and all-consuming as ever, but the more it tries to pull me down, to destroy me, the more ferociously I create: writing, dancing, filming, creating…
I have learned to live with loss and grief, it is a part of who I am, and though I wish this wasn’t true, it is: grief is also an integral part of my children, and I know they feel the loss a little extra on holidays too.
“You must move through the world in a way that enchants you!”
In my family, I am the keeper of the stories, and the stories are my “keep.” In medieval castles, the “heart” of the castle, meaning the inner stronghold, fortified tower, and safest place in the castle is called the “keep.” My family stories are the heart of my family, the narrative that informs who I am, and what stories I choose to pass onto my children. When life starts to feel like being lost in a dark forest without a path, and I feel confused or scared, my family fairy tales, myths, and legends are the golden threads that weave through the trees, like dancing fireflies, lighting my path, guiding me to the deepest, richest, most magical experiences for my soul.
Then there was the daily dancing for no reason at all. It didn’t matter if things were going well, or the world was crashing down around their ears, they danced together through it all.
I saw firsthand how dancing can instantly change the energy in any situation, shake off stress, tears to laughter, mundane to magic, grumpiness into giggles…
If there exists a land of windswept fairy tales, Skye is it. It feels like you are on the edge of the world. Fog curls around the mountains like gray cotton candy arms wrapping the hills in a hug, pink wildflowers dangle like bells, old stone bridges arch over rushing rivers, the kinds of stone bridges where ancient legends are made, legends of fairies and magical creatures who dance on the bridges at night, bridges from this world to the other world, the magic world.
They’re just little bearded guys, but they are the keepers of the flame. They remind me that no matter how dark and treacherous a storm may seem, no matter how thick the fog of grief around me, when I don’t know which way to turn, I just need to keep my eyes open, watching for the light that will guide me home.
