If I Had Magic in My Fingertips

I wish that I had magic in my fingertips, the same fingertips that smooth your troubled brow, mend your cuts and bruises with a Dora the Explorer plaster, and single-handedly wrestle the dragons and monsters that lurk like cowards under your bed and in the cupboard. If I had magic in my fingertips I would move the storm clouds to make way for sunshine and endlessly blue skies. If I had magic in my fingertips I would lift boulders to smooth your path and sprinkle gold dust on your silky hair to stave off poverty and sickness and the tyranny of slavery of any kind. If I had magic in my fingertips I would part the waters of the sea so you could travel unharmed and keep you safe from abuse in a world that doesn’t always believe in magic. If I had magic in my fingertips I would guide you in your journey so you wouldn’t fall down or get mired in hopelessness, cutting a swathe through the dense undergrowth of the jungle so that you could see the height of wonder without tripping up and experiencing the lows.

Remember that time, at the birthday party, when the magician coaxed a rabbit out of his top hat? With the wave of his magic wand he turned an empty box into a treasure trove of sweets. He produced a gold coin from the folds of your dress. Your face lit up as you laughed and clapped and said you believed in magic. I said I did too.

You believe that the clouds don’t fall out of the sky because they’re really magic cows and sheep and elephants floating. You believe that a vibrant bloom that grows from a tiny seed you planted in the soil is magic. Santa Claus coming down the chimney is magic. There is magic all around you and you are so innocent that you can still see it, believe in it unquestioningly.

Someday when my very hungry caterpillar turns into an independent butterfly with wings to take you away from home, I hope that you will still believe in magic, that you can conjure it up on a bleak day and know that spiralling down is not the only direction. And someday maybe you will know the joy of holding your own magic in your fingertips. My wish for you is that you will always know that the magic is inside you.

Thank you, my darling girls, for making me remember that the world is full of magic. It’s at every hairpin turn in the road, in the leaves of a mighty oak tree, in the cry of a baby’s first gasp of breath, blinking in the light after so many months of darkness.

Did you see that? It’s the magic surging through my fingertips. It’s love. It’s wonder. It’s motherhood. For me, it’s the greatest show on earth. It’s magic. But not always. Sometimes it's just life. And that's why we all need a little magic.

I wrote this post for the Josie's Writing Workshop and chose prompt #3: What is your magic power? Or what would you like it to be?

The Time Traveller's Trouble & Strife

We humans 'know' past and future and, as far as scientists can tell, this ability is not shared by other animals. It’s interesting to think that animals can’t conjure up memories or envision something in the future. Time is a tricky business. We all seem to take it for granted that it does exist but why do we believe in something that we can’t see, taste, smell or hold? Why does it only travel in one direction, from past to present to future and not the other way around? If this thing called time is so elusive, does that mean that it’s real or a figment of our imagination?
Time may be elusive but, for the past few years, it’s become painfully obvious that it’s not a figment of my mind nor is it travelling backwards. I know this because of the deepening furrows on my forehead, the crow’s feet, the laugh lines and the spreading and sagging and creaking. I not only know what a wattle is but I have enough to share. But you know what? I’ve earned all these battle scars and I wear them proudly. Also, I’m not so keen on needles or scalpels.

Besides the inevitable ageing process, I’ve discovered another interesting thing about the passage of time. As I get older I’ve begun to identify with my grandparents’ need to share their stories from the past, memories of their golden sun-dappled days of youth. I find myself doing the same thing lately, telling my kids all these old stories that I unearthed from my own childhood, digging them up like an eager archaeologist, blowing off the dust and entrusting them to my children as if they were the treasures in King Tut’s tomb.

Partly, I’m reminiscing because my long-term memory is becoming better than my short-term memory. But there’s another part of me that gets a thrill out of remembering the past. Sometimes, as a parent, as a spouse, as a tax-paying, bill-paying member of ‘responsible society’, it’s fun to remember that I have a history, that once upon a time I was young and carefree and devil-may-have-cared but I didn’t. I tell my kids about some of the crazy hijinks from bygone days, editing out the truly disreputable parts and skipping the story about how I jumped off a moving train that was headed to Budapest when I needed to get back to my school in Germany for final exams. And that is a true story. [Aside: Just for the record, even if you can still see the platform, once the train is moving it’s going faster than you think and the majority of train station platforms are not made out of that spongey stuff they use in playgrounds. Just saying. ]

But mostly, I reminisce about the good times and the funny times and the times when I felt sad or confused or scared but came through it okay. I share my stories with my kids as a way to connect with them and I like to think it helps them make sense of the world or maybe just lets them see that I’m a person too and not just their mother. They like to hear about the music I listened to and the TV shows I watched and the trouble my sister and I got into. They ask a lot of questions about what it was like to grow up in the cave ages, before the Internet and Facebook and Skype and Twitter and Nintendo. So I tell them that I read a lot of books, the kind with real paper on the inside and I listened to record albums. And they laugh. And it’s a little bonding exercise, free and fun for the whole family. But, despite all the reaching into the past for jolly tales of yore, time keeps moving forward. And there’s nothing that we can do about it. Hopefully, time is on my side but, if it’s not, my kids will remember some good times and funny times and sad times and pass them on to their own children some day. I give them my time today and my memories from yesterday and they’ll have that in the future.

On another note regarding time, I have always been fascinated with the whole concept of time travel. If you were given a chance to travel in time, would you take it? Would you choose to travel to the past or the future? And, upon your return to the present, would you want to remember what you had seen?

I wrote this post for Josie’s Writing Workshop at Sleep is for the Weak. The prompt I chose was Time.