Making Everyday Magic

The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses - Charles DeLint

I made magic today. 

This afternoon, I was walking back home from the library, my arms full of books, listening to the music of Loreena McKennitt and Enya. Nearing the end of an unseasonably warm winter, today felt like late spring - balmy breezes wafted sweet waves of jasmine and magnolia and the savory scent of cut grass, and even the shadows were pleasantly warm. New growth showed on the branches of many trees, presaging fresh green leaves in the near future. As I walked along the ridges of the bay, I looked around, delighting in the beauty of house and garden, wall and verge; and below, the furred green valley and the spread expanse of azure water winged with yachts.  

The harbour on a beautiful late winter day...

It was lucky I paid attention today - otherwise I would have missed my chance.

As I walked along relatively quiet sidestreet, I saw a sign affixed with tape to the wall of a hedged garden. Written and illustrated in rainbow texta, it was clearly a child's masterpiece of commercial art. 

           The best shorever!

KIds Jewelry and

                         TOYS!!  

                      Family Shop

                (adult's makeup)          DVDs + CDs

This endearing notice was lavishly illuminated with smiley faces and stars. It took me back to my own childhood "shops", and the huge excitement I felt when some passer-by bought from them - and I wanted to go and make some sort of supporting purchase from this "Family Shop" - to contribute somehow to the children's happy memories.

                    

But the gate was shut, and nothing stirred behind the hedge. The sign was clearly less than a day-old. Had the shop closed early, due to lack of custom?

Rather disappointed, I continued on my way, and turned the corner. Then I thought of something I could do - something BETTER than simply going to the "shop" and buying something. I rested my pile of books on someone's wall, and retrieved my leatherbound and dragon-stamped notebook (which I carry in my handbag always, to capture fleeting poetic inspirations, visions and stories). On one creamy, stiff page I wrote, in my most beautiful script the words "From a Fairy". I illustrated the corner of the page with a faerie face, her hair blown across a night sky spangled with stars and adorned with a crescent moon. I tore the page out carefully. Then I took a couple of dollars from my wallet (choosing my most golden coins), and wrapped them carefully and neatly in the paper, so that the faerie face was the front of a small square package. 

Red Azalea 

Near me an azalea bush rioted over the fence, covered in crimson flowers. I plucked one, and walked back to the house with the sign. I looked around carefully to make sure no one observed me, then tucked the package (fae face uppermost) half-under the sign, lifting a bit of the tape to fix it securely. I then attached the big crimson flower just above, so that the children (or parent) would not fail to see it when they came to look at or take down the sign. 

Children are naturally attracted to mystery and magic.

Then I walked away, filled with delighted imaginings of the reactions of the children when they discovered the "fairy's" present. 

I think I did something truly magical today. Spontaneous, unexpected, and wondrous for the children. I remember how when I was a child myself, I would ask my parents "Did you do this?" when something magical happened, like the tooth-fairy taking my teeth, or Father Christmas coming in the night. And my mother would always arrange it so that she could say with honesty that it wasn't her (I somehow never thought to ask my father - just as well...) The mystery was the heart of the magic. 

So today, as I walked home, I imagined the children asking their parents, imploring (as children do), to be told that the magic is real and to believe, "It wasn't you who put this here was it?"

What makes me hug myself with glee is the fact that the parents will have no idea. And this genuine confusion and wondering will be picked up by their children, who will know their parents are mystified, and will draw their own conclusions. Maybe they will keep the note, and remember, even when they are older, as a magical mystery that was never solved. 

Maybe they will as adults spontaneously decide to "make magic" for another child.

I was a real fairy today. And that's how I will ever be remembered by those children. Making magic is a wonderful thing. I feel it won't stop here...

                

Perhaps I'll become a fairy-godmother. Who knows? 

Why Do We Desire Dragons? A Dragon-Seeker's Quest

“The dragon is the patron saint of all storytellers and artists” – Guillermo del Toro

"I choose to believe in dragons." - Robin Hobb 

Tintaglia by John Howe, for Robin Hobb's "Ship of Destiny" 

 This blog post was inspired by Terry Windling's "Moveable Feast" on the topic of The Desire for Dragons: What Brings Us to Myth and Fantasy?.

I think it is a question that every person who has ever felt the "desire for dragons" should ask themselves, not in an attempt to "explain the magic away" but in a quest to discover these elusive beasts and on the way, perhaps to ourselves... It is a question that leads into a hundred other questions, for example:

Why is it that we out of everyone in the world feel most strongly a desire for Faerie - for myth and story - for transcendence and legend and perilous beauty? Is it innate - like a magic of old - or is it something that is taught? Why do only some people feel it, and why do others become accountants?  What is the "real" basis of our desire and belief? How much should we care about "reality" anyway? Is story more important than reality? Does story create reality? What is lacking in modern life, that we turn with wistful eyes to a mystical past that never existed save in story? How can we live according to such precepts? How can we use story to make the world we live a better place? Why dragons?

Dragon and Warrior Princess by John Howe

Well, I think the answers to all these questions can only fully be discovered, and crafted, over a lifetime. So as Woolf would say, if you are looking for a "nugget of truth" I'm afraid you won't be getting one (sorry dragons - but gold is shinier than truth anyway). 

Smaug the Golden by John Howe
He seems to agree...

Instead I invite you on my dragon-seeking quest. With staff in hand and dusty sandals, armed with nothing more than a pencil and a roll of parchment (or pad of paper, take your pick) we shall follow the road that leads away across the hills, into the mountains and beyond. And perhaps on the way we will find some glimmerings of the elusive answers to our questions, on the sun-caught wings of a dragon high above, or the dully metallic scales of a Worm wrapped around a hill; or between the serpents coiling at the edges of an old map...

Earthsea by John Howe

Where shall we seek? It does not matter. Dragons are not difficult to find. As anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of world mythology would know, dragons have colonised all the earth and sea and sky. From China to Australia; from South America to Africa to Britain - in all places where humans have settled, it would seem that dragons have preceded them. Sailors feared the deeps for the serpents that lurked below the surface, beyond sight but not beyond knowledge. When the first maps were created the edges of the "known" were marked and everyone knew that dragons were beyond. After rain, we glimpse the tail of the Rainbow Serpent. Look up into the sky at night, and the shining length of "Draco" can be seen. Dragons can be sought - and found - everywhere. It all depends on how you look.

Sea Dragon by John Howe
You would be wise to fear the deeps...

I seem to be blessed with the ability to see dragons. Almost everything I see can be evidence of a dragon - the jagged, granite peaks of a mountain so easily becomes the spine of a sleeping, half-buried dragon, and a massing bank of clouds becomes, with little effort, dragon's breath. Of course, at the same time I "know" that the granite spine was formed by erosion and geological forces of the earth, and the clouds are shaped by air pressure and evaporation. But somehow, strangely, all my scientific knowledge does not diminish my wonder. 

Dragon Isle by John Howe 
I see dragons everywhere... and clearly so does John Howe. 

The dragons and the "magic" of the world I sense every day have the same solidity in my mind as the scientific phenomena. They exist, in my mind, on parallel planes. I do not deny scientific "reality", nor do I believe that the "real-ness" of magic and dragons is the same kind as this more mundane knowledge (though it is as important to me). 

The Stone Dragon by John Howe for Robin Hobb's "Assassin's Quest" 

Tolkien wrote in his essay On Fairy Stories:

“Fairy-stories were plainly not primarily concerned with possibility, but with desirability. If they awakened desire, satisfying it while often whetting it unbearably, they succeeded… The dragon had the trade-mark Of Faerie written plain upon him. In whatever world he had his being it was an Other-world. Fantasy, the making or glimpsing of Other-worlds, was the heart of the desire of Faërie. I desired dragons with a profound desire... the world that contained even the imagination of Fafnir was richer and more beautiful, at whatever cost of peril.”

That is the gift of dragon-sight; the purpose of the dragon quest. Dragons embody the beauty and the peril of an "other world" that is "richer and more beautiful" and full of strange and marvellous things. Ah - I see a glimmer of an answer - a flash of desire on the wing of a dragon! I understand a part of why I desire Faerie - and dragons - with such aching passion. When life can contain "even the imagination" of such eldritch possibility - when a world of unplumbed depths of mystery exists alongside our own - then what a glory is opened to the soul! What visions of wonder, far beyond the ken of mortal sight, unfold before the inner eye, lit by a "light better than any light that ever shone; a land no one can define or remember, only desire"... 

 "In this unfolding, ever-changing but constant drama, dragons have always played a role. They are among the First...They embody concepts of considerable importance and they are clothed in scales. Their origins are inextricably interwoven with our psyche, and they breathe fire. They are Freudian and, better still, eminently Jungian, and they spread vast wings over the sky.”  - John Howe, Forging Dragons

Dragon of Chaos by John Howe
The dragon that created the cosmos...

Volcanic Dragons by John Howe

I have heard people say that science killed magic. I disagree. Science is an exploration - an attempt to penetrate mystery. Artists and writers; scientists and mathematicians - all share a desire to explore and to discover. I do not think that science explains everything - Mystery abounds yet, and dragons were ever the gate-keepers of mystery.

The Gates of Night by John Howe

This is why, I believe, dragons are such potent and universal figures; so beloved by storytellers and artists from the beginning of human thought. That is why they are so tenacious, and will not let themselves be rooted from our stories, from the land or from our consciousness. That is why I follow their fiery trails, ever seeking Faerie. And that is why I think dragons are eternal. No matter how "advanced" humanity becomes in scientific pursuits, the dragon will be there.

"The skies of this world were always meant to have dragons. When they are not here, humans miss them. Some never think of them, of course. But some children, from the time they are small, they look up at the blue summer sky and watch for something that never comes. Because they know." - Robin Hobb, Golden Fool

Dragon Moons by John Howe

Fool's Fate by John Howe, for Robin Hobb's book of the same name 

Visions of Music - Enya and "The Dream of Waking Earth"

Omnem crede diem cride diluxesse supremum
(believe each day that breaks to be your last) -  Enya, Pax Deorum

Music wakes me to story, evoking images and scenes within my mind. I've come to realise this gift is a form of synasthesia, but this knowledge does nothing to dispel my wonder at the beauty of my fantasies, and my sense of "travelling" to strange and wondrous places, within my own mind.

Behold below the story I envisaged when listening to Enya's beautiful "Pax Deorum". The story is strange, and heroic, and the ending mysterious. Alas - when the music ended I saw no more. But stories are never done, and perhaps one day I shall continue it.

The Song of Waking Earth

A wind calls above the School of the Lightgatherers: a cold, wet wind – a winter wind, that yet smells of coming sweet spring rain. With strong fingers of air it rakes the hair-fine needles of the plateau pines, so that the mighty trees toss their proud heads blackly against the night sky. But the high stone walls of the school stand firm, as they will for many years, and the wind spends itself wailing around the crenelated walltop, a wordless prophecy.

A time of change is indeed foretold – for the solstice of winter is past, and all growing things feel the foreboding of spring. Yet darkness still holds the land, and all life is gripped by bitter, blighting cold.

Beneath the meagre shelter of the rocky plateau upon which the School is built, huddles a village, surrounded by a few bare, frostbitten fields and a wide wilderness. Frequently, the inhabitants turn to look longingly toward the east – but the sun has not risen since Tallowtide, and since then, snowclouds have obscured the moon, so that none can measure the turning of the days save by the waning of candles, and notches on the hearth. As it happens every winter, Time itself is frozen in the village, but though they do not know it yet – this bleak time of waiting nears its end. Tonight is the ritual of Lightsummon. Soon, it begins again, in the School of the Lightgatherers.

Tonight, the courtyard of the Lightgatherers is torch-lit and crowded with moving figures; women all – old and young, of all heights, slender and thick-waisted; hooded and cloaked in black velvet. To a watcher on the ground their movements would appear casual – each woman walking, seemingly at whim throughout the courtyard, from end to end, around the perimeter; weaving in and out of the crowd. But if we were to glide on silent wings over the school, like a snow-owl, invisible in the night – the order in the chaos is revealed; an ever-shifting pattern, like a stately dance. No word is spoken, but as the snow in the courtyard is ground to slush by many feet, and the wind blows back the snow clouds, to reveal a sparkling sky of midnight-blue, a song is born.

From the throat of one neither old nor young, of middling height but a strong, wise face it begins – low, and quiet and rhythmic. But soon the song rises above the calling of the wind, for like a candle flame igniting many others, the chant is passed from woman to woman, growing in power until it contains the strength of a multitude. This is the song of Lightsummon; a song of many parts, and many voices. But just as a tapestry may be woven of many threads of varied hue, yet may reveal a glorious and cohesive pattern, so the song contained a mighty spell. They – the Lightgatherers – sang of the waiting of the world, and blowing clouds, and of the pounding heart of the earth that throbs with fiery force under the snow.

And now, from black iron sconces in the wall, the strongest and tallest among the women lift torches and carry them high, in gloved hands. The flames seem to blaze brighter and hotter for their singing, and fierce are the women’s smiles in the flickering light. The other Lightgatherers take warm censers from a brazier, and swing them on fine silver chains. From each moon-like globe emanates a fresh and woody scent that recalls the memory of green and pumping sap. As the sky is blown clear of the last snow-clouds, the heavy doors of the School swing open, and the Lightgatherers stride out into the night, moving swiftly in a double line across the plateau. The song now is powerful as a river, with the chanting of elder voices providing the depth, and the high harmonies of the maidens shifting and beautiful as the play of light on a rushing stream.

From a mighty height, the path from the plateau curves down toward the village. Steep it is, and treacherous, as it has been unevenly eroded by many storms and is covered with loose gravel. But fast and sure as meltwater they descend, the Lightgatherers, and their song is heard long ere they reach the village below.

From the cold stupor of winter the villagers awake, and the inhabitants of every house, from youngest child to wizened grandfather, stand at their windows to watch the Lightgatherers come, and in each hand they grip a scrap of unlit tallow-candle.

When the company of Lightgatherers enters the village, the women’s quick stride slows to a solemn, steady tread, and their song becomes gentler; less fierce and more hopeful. Though they look neither to the right nor left, the singers’ voices wake in the heart of every listener soft memories of sunlight and tender growing things – and the torches and swinging censers create a warm, sweet-scented illusion of spring. As the Lightgatherers pass, each villager lights their candle, so that to a watcher it would seem the singers leave a trail of light that bravely burns even as the company passes out of the village into darkness…

For leave they must, and take an arduous route into the frozen wild. No road is laid to guide their feet, but the uncovered moon reveals a sparse trail of white pebbles leading into the distance. Onward they march – their defiant song swelling again in volume – and they stride unceasing, over crackling frost that glitters in the moonlight like splintered glass, and around deep drifts of snow; up rocky hillsides tufted with dead, cold-blasted grass.

For an long and weary way, their torches are the only lights in the frozen waste, save the cold and distant sky-companions, the stars and the moon, but all at once, sinuous and iridescent flames of green and gold appear in the sky, forming a flickering trail of light. Though the Lightgatherers’ song was powerful before; now it sounds exultant, as if the women’s hearts had been further strengthened by the fire of the sky, and the steady pace increases.

Down at last they venture, following a frozen river into a dark valley, wooded with tall, forbidding pines. This is the valley of Telmoth, wherein few dare to go. The ways of its forest are torturous, of blackness unrelieved by any glimpse of sky – and villagers mutter of fell beasts that roam unchecked and ravenous.

Yet resolute still, into utter dark they march, down into the terrible wood – young and old together. Their torches blaze like embers of the sun, and their song is fierce as fire. Downward and inward is their path, and yet they smile still, for to wake the earth to light again they must pierce dark winter’s heart with voices and with torches – and to summon back the sun they must enter deepest shadow. 

They enter the forest, a singing, shining company. But their light is lost between the vast trunks of trees, and their song fades with distance – till all that can be heard on the Telmoth’s lip, is the sound of wailing winds, and the roaring of the pines.

Why are we so Fascinated by Pirates?

 

It is, it is, a glorious thing to be a pirate king.

Who hasn't dreamed of "a pirate's life" at some point in their lives? When we think of "pirates" our imagination flies to the Spanish Main, or to the Caribbean - even to Neverland. Our mental images of pirates have been shaped by popular culture for centuries - a myth-making and glorification of bandits, similar to the legend of Robin Hood. Since the writer "Captain Charles Johnson" published his influential work A General History of the Pyrates in 1724 - the figure of the pirate has assumed legendary qualities, and accrued some interesting (but fictitious) characteristics. We invest these beings with attributes we desire or feel we lack - courage, rebelliousness, a devil-may-care outlook on life, loyalty to others (in the form of "crewmates"), adventurousness, confidence... They become the agents of mystery - hailing from exotic locations, bound for strange shores. They do not conform to society - observe their bohemian dress and colourful language. Oh if only we dared to follow their example. 

We all know that the reality of piracy was not so attractive as popular culture has portrayed it. While the so-called "golden age" of piracy has been depicted as a time of lavish treasure and boundless opportunity for adventurous souls to discover new places and make their fortune - conditions aboard even the cleanest and best-equipped ship became quickly unsavoury when the sweaty and unwashed crew had sailed a week or two... While the captain's cabin was palatial compared to the rest of the ship (almost big enough to stand up in), most crewmembers had to bunk in cramped and squalid conditions, or swing in flea-swarming hammocks. Those picturesque Spanish galleons - they had the euphemistically named jardins instead of toilets. The food was at best bland and at worst rancid, bilge-soaked or rendered inedible by rats, mildew or weevils. The unsanitary conditions and poor nutrition made the ships into breeding grounds for disease. Did you ever wonder where the phrase "scurvy rascal" came from?

This is the face of your average pirate.

But surely we can afford to put up with a bit of hardship to live such a free and wonderful life as pirates led? Now they weren't stuck behind a desk all day. Nor are they required to conform to society's standards of beauty. And with the job comes so many cool tricks! We all know what pirates do - they swing around on rigging, quaff quarts of rum, romance (seduce is such an ugly word) beautiful and fiesty yet ultimately yielding women, engage in frequent and flamboyant sword-fights and walk around with parrots on their shoulders.

And we mustn't forget the golden lure. Just think of the treasure! Who doesn't love golden chalices and chests of silver coins? Speaking of chests - check out that beauteous buxom pirate wench! She even has a sword! How empowering is that? And anyway - everyone knows that pirates were gentlemen underneath... Well - maybe not gentlemen, after all they had hard lives and were rebels against society! But deep down underneath they were decent. Just look at Jack (I mean Captain Jack) Sparrow!

Just a lovable rogue... right?

The truth is, our perception of piracy is a romantic fantasy. "Piracy" really refers to acts of violent crime committed at sea (but can also be stretched to include violent robbery on land and air). And our image of the swashbuckling pirate is based only on a small period in history (the aforementioned "Golden Age" of piracy) whereas piracy has actually existed since the 14th Century BC and still exists today.

Nor were pirates the attractive idealists, attractive daredevils or unattractive-yet-comical characters we have seen on stage or screen. Rather they were hardened criminals who, although they did not commonly "kill all hands on deck" (simply because it would cost them too many lives), felt no compunction in committing murder, rape, extortion and theft.

Wait - you mean I'm not drawn from life?

Nor is piracy a Western phenomenon. Rather it is a global crime - with pirates found all over the world throughout history, including China, India and North Africa. In modern times pirates are still to be found in the waters of Somalia, Guinea and the Danube River.

Viewed out of the rose-coloured lenses of popular culture, a pirate presents a truly ugly sight. But is there nothing good we can take from the pirate trope? Is it necessarily a dangerous fantasy? Of course not!

The pirate legend satisfies the universal human need for heroes - mythical figures onto whom we project the "admirable" qualities we feel we lack in ourselves and our society. Today we feel restricted by bureaucracy, obliged to conform to social expectations and niceties. We look to the pirate ship as a means to sail away from the strictures of modern life. The pirate's crew, appeals to us with its tight-knit sense of belonging - a connection we feel we lack in a technologised society. In a world where  security is of paramount concern - the image of the adventurous, risk-taking treasure-seeker offers hope and consolation. The pirate reality was and is brutal and dark. But then, so was, in all likelihood the "reality" behind so many of our mythological figures - the ancient Greek heroes, King Arthur and Robin Hood...

It is the nature of the mythic to transcend its origins. We as humans need these inspirational, larger than life figures. Therefore the pirate fantasy figure has a great deal of value, so long as we remain aware of the disturbing truth; and do not let the attractive myth tempt us to glorify the ugly reality.