Call It Magic, by Ash Rowan
These are some of the articles of my faith (you don’t have to agree, but I won’t be persuaded otherwise. Not yet, anyways)—-
I believe in: Heavenly Parents, who want us to make mistakes and get messy. We see Them happily cleaning Their Heavenly Mansion Of Many Rooms and we say, “I want to try that!!” and we smear the wall with Slurpee-solvent squeegee’d out of our Melissa and Doug play-cleaning set. (I like that another word for “pretend” or “imaginary” is “play.” Play is some of our most important work. Ask Fred Rogers in his Land of Make-Believe. Even my three-year-old knows that playing lots of games and toys is his “ottupation”!)
I believe in: a Mother There, whose hearth and home magic imbue our bodies and selves and houses (Earth-house bird-house love at home) with the most powerful magic that is or was: a momma’s love.
The truth is, love is all there is, in the end.
The truth is, we’re all playing house in every new space we enter. (Yes, that includes the house which is white— the White House, or the temple. Seriously, spot the difference here.)
It all comes down to making friends and found families, and clashing and slaying dragons together. It’s a humanity simulator, babes! We’re currently in it! All role-playing in one big human family. Cosplaying deity, and wanting to be just like our heroes (our parents and grown-ups and helpers) when we grow up.
So, why not dance beneath the moon? Why not pretend she can hear you and wants the best for you, when you call to her in evening prayer? Maybe medicine in glass bottles makes it work better. Maybe asking God nicely over a vial of oil imbues it with healing properties. I hope for it, I believe in it. Some days. Most days.
(It’s okay if you don’t. But it can be fun to imagine.)
Scripture is family journals; flipping your triple-combination open to a random passage to see what sticks is the same as drawing a card from a tarot deck, is the same as projecting a homemade character into a tabletop adventure with a group of friends. It’s always been humans telling ourselves— smaller beings, inner selves— stories, trying to crack the nut at the center of the universe (because it is a hell of a nut, and we are a hell of some birds). God as superhero. What’s the difference between Thor of the Norse and Carol Danvers and Vishnu, Stan Lee and Joseph Smith?
Call it magic, call it true
I call it magic when I'm with you
And I just got broken, broken into two
Still I call it magic, when I'm next to you
And I can't get over, can't get over you
Still, I call it magic, such a precious truth
Do you feel lied to? I’m still sort of angry at it all. But don’t look behind the curtain now, the ones behind the veil are pretending too. (Pretending isn’t bad. It’s built and baked in to our blood, one of the first things we know to do, innately.)
Have we put these childish things away?
Have we lost the magic that we once had?
Does praying really call down divine wrath, any more than it converts donuts and orange juice into something resembling strengthening nourishment? I believe it rattles our very constitutions around; through mindful intention of gracious gratitude, our vessel becomes purified and ready to be filled.
Maybe there’s something more to it after all.
And if you were to ask me
after all that we've been through:
“Still believe in magic?”
Well yes, I do.
Of course I do.
Get a top hat and a rabbit,
Work the crowd and make your magic
Turn the lights down low
(And your dreams will come true)
(May the force be with you)
Knock 'em dead!
Now, go and do. Do, and be. (It’s okay to try. Trying IS being.)
The Lady of the Moon wills it.