And While The Moon Begins To Set

The Sun Also Rises

Moonset at sunrise, looking across the Salish Sea toward Olympic National Park.

While the war against your sanity and peace of mind rages, while they pray to their cruelly imagined god, plotting your humiliation, pleading for him to tip the scales in their favor, immense, healing doses of magic remain. They unfold a thousand times each day, step out from behind the cloak, wink in reassuring advocacy, remind you that, while hidden to some, they remain.

It is for you to calm your breathing, soften your gaze enough to see.

The gods love a farce. And part of that farce is the short-lived glee of the cruel, their surety and their failure to read the room. The universe explains, again and again, magic is for those who will see, who will gather it in, who will share. Haters have no capacity for it. No room. They cannot even see it, certainly not own it, hoard it, control it, deny it.

And all their attempts to keep it from anyone else only makes it run away from them.

“We are legion,” says magic. “We are absolutely everywhere.”

A Varied Thrush (Ixoreus naevius), moss and three, Bigleaf Maple (Acer macrophyllum), samaras.

Take what you need. Share generously, withholding from none. Attempts to keep it from anyone else will make it run away from you. This is the way.