Thursday, August 18, 2016


Folks are fond of reminding me that Magick happens when you least expect it. I lean in the other direction. I like to think that I make my own Magick, and the fun is in the expectation. Knowing that my Magick works is what makes it work. Not the other way around.

Take, for example, this whole big hubbub around the Law of Attraction.

First off, it's really not anything new. The darling Herr Einstein knew about it. So did Mr. Carnegie and Ralph Waldo Emerson and a host of other cats who lived outside the proverbial box. They knew that focused attention created realities. They also knew that the biggest obstacle to such magickal workings was a person's own limited beliefs. In short, the Law of Attraction (film) was Rhonda Byrne's way of taking old news, rewrapping it in a shiny new package, and making a gazillion dollars off those who've never read a book in their lives.

But before my snarky commentary sways me from my happy path, let's get back to it, shall we?

I've been deeply immersed in another of Pat Conroy's marvelous novels. I'm a big fan. I have a soft spot for Southern writers. There's something about their love of words that separates them from the pack. Also, I can hear the accent. And I love me a Southern accent. The good ones can paint glorious pictures with their words, drawing you deeper into their world with every sentence read. Mr. Conroy is a master of the art. And, having lived in the South on two occasions during my lifetime, I can tell you from experience that his colorful (and sometimes painful) descriptions of the South and its inhabitants are dead on.

So, I'm deeply immersed in this story, reading for hours at a time, and feeling as if I'm there. (I adore those kinds of books!) More times than I can count, I had to put the book down and take a few deep breaths. There was something so familiar about some of the characters, it made me want to weep. And scream. And shoot somebody. Painful memories and happy ones mixed together like a delectable meal served with horrible wine. I kept wondering how this storyteller could evoke such strong emotions about something that I lived a whole other lifetime ago. We're talking FORTY YEARS. Still, Pat Conroy is that gifted. He tells his stories so you can live them. Not all of us wish to.

Still, I read on.

Then, today, out of the blue, I get a message from a woman I'd known back when I was a mere child (of 18 or so). She was one of the few women I met whilst living in the South who I really liked. She was what a runt like me would call "statuesque". Tall and graceful and beautiful in a way that I would never be. She carried herself in that proud way that women in the South are bred to. I was a bit jealous of her, mostly because she was the Belle that my then-boyfriend prayed I'd somehow morph into. Which was laughable, because I'm about as Yankee as they come. But I was a child. And she seemed more a woman. And somehow, the friendship worked, even though for just a short while.

When I saw her message, it took me a moment to recognize the name. Then it hit me. As if there were no such thing as time, I was right back there, in her bathroom, watching her apply her makeup (something I never did) with the utmost care and expertise. I was fascinated by her mastery. I was also puzzled as to why anyone would spend that much time just to go out the door. It seemed ridiculous to me. It also made me feel more inadequate because I had absolutely no understanding of such rituals. I was a tomboy. I have dark skin and dark hair and I sweat like a guy and this was North Carolina for Pete's sake! Who the hell wears makeup when it's ninety degrees and the humidity levels are off the charts. Even if I'd had an inkling, the stuff would've dripped off my face the moment we walked out of her air-conditioned apartment.

I remembered all this, and much more, in the flash of an instant. And then I remembered how deeply I'd immersed myself in this book about the South and its troubled characters. That's when it hit me. Again.

Focus on anything, with that much intensity, for any length of time and VOILA! It'll show up in your face just as if you'd snapped your fingers and said "ABRACABRA".

Moral of the story:

Pay attention!

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