Secret, special magical spaces surround us. An invisible world where the night is lit by a million fireflies, faeries dance, and the trees sing. Be still and quiet; listen for the rhythms.
When we were children, such places abounded. In tangly backyard gardens; mushroom-floored woods. Underneath the boughs of willows; in attic kingdoms.
Pure magic; shimmering, silvery shadows stretching across our imaginations. Found on full moonish nights, or behind doors opening to secret passwords.
Epic sagas, or immediate stories, these places provided something that the soul needs – a sense of wonder, of the impossible, a play ground for the mind to wander.
Worlds we created or where created for us. Simple or elaborate; populated by one or thousands, our magical places offered hours of escape, enjoyment, play and pleasure.
Perhaps revisited with children and grandchildren, kept fresh and accessible. Or fallen into disarray from lack of use. Some slip into these magic spaces, never to return.
We need to find these secret magic spaces so that our imagination stays limber, our creativity awake. When magic is lost, the world is a darker, colder place.
Life robs us of our innocence, our faith in, the will and ability to believe there are hidden spaces were the Old Ways continue, where spells and charms and incantations bring about change.
Right now, I’m afraid I’ve lost my golden key to the castle. Lost the path to my secret magical spaces. They are wraiths; silent, half-visible, untouchable. Depression does that.
I still believe in secret, magical spaces. I’ve never stopped. But tears and deep sadness can block the telling of the tale; the dancing with faeries, of hearing trees sing. Maybe someday I’ll find that path through the woods that leads back to my secret, magical places – out in the world, and inside me.
A thought piece for mlmm Tale Weaver/Fairy Tale 104: a magical place.
(image via pixabay.com)