Do you know that feeling when you find yourself in the middle of something you never thought would happen to you? Something so dangerous your adrenaline storms your body so that your rational mind turns off and your instinct takes over?
That’s how I felt when I found myself in the middle of a high speed criminal chase in New Orleans the other day.
It was quiet, with only the sound of the river. I have spent my life looking for miracles, so when Sharon and I were driving down the desert highway in New Mexico, with cell service long gone and our only entertainment the gallivanting tumbleweeds crossing
“You must move through the world in a way that enchants you!”
As we checked out, we did a little Game of Thrones photo shoot in the empty rooms we walked through. Mind you, my kids are too young to watch it, so it was just me living my Mother of Dragons fantasy because I so resonate with the character: I feel like I’ve spent a long night in a fire, burning with grief and love and heartbreak, and now as the fire simmers down, I emerge, not burnt and weak, but stronger, braver, with my arms full of fierce baby dragons.
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.
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.
We walked around the Rosslyn Chapel with our heads tilted back, looking at the stunning scrollwork, and listened to the stories of murder, treasure, goddess symbology and pagan worship mixed with ancient Egypt, freemasons, Christianity, Jewish stars, and so much more …
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.
As I sat alone at the bar at Chez Josephine, I hung my pink beach ball purse on the hook under the bar and ordered my favorite champagne. Before long, the bartender saw my purse and gasped, so I pushed it over to her. She slung it over her arm and paraded around the restaurant for people to admire her. The other women sitting at the bar began gushing about my feathered cape and entire ensemble. I was surrounded by red velvet walls, a blue tin ceiling, dripping chandeliers, and massive images of my favorite icon, Josephine Baker. Someone was singing boisterously in French, and the bar was lively with people shouting and laughing.
I sat quietly, bathed in the soft lights, and just… was.
Even if I’m not sure what I am experiencing, or what it all means, my body tingles madly and something deep inside feels illuminated, something that wasn’t there before.
