Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I truly am from another time.
On days like today, sitting outside with the wind braiding tangles in my fly-aways, I hear whispers of a past life. There is stillness and brightness woven into the velvet breeze. Its old magic is akin to hope. It carries seed pods far past their parent’s rooted dwelling to take up the cause in distant lands.
I don’t know if it’s considered a heresy to believe that magic is real. Someday I hope to be able to articulate how I see faith and the world. Like the old magic that worked in Aslan’s favor on the stone table. It is something that is always moving under the surface that we’ve tried to push under the rug by clinging to the visible. The evidence is all around, yet we have eliminated the variety of rocks we allow ourselves to overturn in search of truth.
As beings, aren’t we half invisible—body and soul? Why would we expect our world to be any different?
I felt close to the seam that connects the curtain today. It is shantung silk with silver iridescence whose nubs read like braille against my skin. Today is a mending day.