Leap Year: Or the Magpie and the Time Thief

It can't help itself.  There are so many shiny little seconds, like copper pennies, buried in the sand. And all those fat marbled minutes that roll downhill and find themselves half-submerged in a puddle.  Then there are the hours, glittering gears forever moving forward one plodding step at a time.  The magpie must have them all, plucking them from their gutters and trash bins and other places time goes to be forgotten.  

The thrifty bird plucks a lost second from the bottom of your pocket--a strand of silver tinsel in its black beak.  Broken-down minutes are trapped in its wings as if stardust were woven into each feather.  It greedily clutches and grabs for the heaviest and most elusive of treasures: the hour that slipped away from you, frittered away or just lost when you forgot to look for it.  The bird hooks its claws through the gear's hollow center, careful not to let the teeth bite into its scaled bones.  

Back to the nest.

The scavenger's home becomes a museum of so many beautiful moments.  So many grains of sand that escaped the hour glass.  So many sparkling instants that could have sprouted another story, a different path.  They all belong to the magpie.  It wants to gloat over its hoarded treasure buried between rounded twigs and moss, revel in the delicious possibility of lost time.  

But the temptation of finding more--bigger--gems lure it from its nest. 

That is when the time thief strikes.  She waits and she watches the magpie fondle discarded clock faces and rusty numbers that used to mean something.  She hides in the shadows cast by the brilliant light of those silver timepieces and memories swept away with the seconds between blinks.  And when the magpie shakes the last of the stardust from its wings and flits off in search of more sparkling tick-tocks, she makes her move.

Gathers all the dazzling lost instants and stuffs them into one day so that she may bask in the warm promise of extra time.  (She knows too, that this borrowed time will always fetch a high price at the market.)  Like the magpie, she cannot resist the glittering cogs that insist there is a past and a present and a future.  Who can withstand the rotation of two hands on a circular face?

Certainly not the magpie who returns to its nest, drawn by the luminous day built from its hard-scavenged treasure.  It will take back its precious collection, drive its sharp claws into the thief's spine--but the thief knows better than to turn her back to the nest.  She instead hides in the shadows of the waning light, attempting to pull her stolen loot along in her wake.  The bird tugs back, wrapping tinseled seconds around its beak and claws for better purchase; the thief refuses to let go, holding fast to a handful of minutes.  

Push-pull, push-pull, until the moments and hours and seconds and minutes shake loose and scatter themselves over the earth, once again disappearing into gutters and drainpipes, under rocks and tree roots.  The magpie has no choice but to start its work once more.  The thief returns to the shadows, waiting until the bird's nest is once again full of lost time so that she may feast upon it herself.

The earth circles four times around the sun.  Four sets of four seasons sweep through the land. And the cycle begins anew. 

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!

What Love Looks Like

You find it in the small hand, no bigger than a silver dollar, pressed against your forearm as your niece finds her balance.  Each finger, barely larger than a thick blade of grass, has left its mark on your skin though nobody could tell by looking at it.  You find it too, in the fuchsia baby blanket that cannot possibly hold all the tenderness you feel for this little creature that has made her way into your life; this blanket gets bigger and bigger with each passing day so that you can loop happiness and abundance into each shelled stitch.  You want her to remember that her palms were once wrapped around your thick thumbs as she learned to hold herself upright--you want her to know that she has always been strong, always been eager to experience this world.  She only has to look at this blanket, or wrap it around her slight shoulders, to feel the support of her auntie and know that she, like her mother, is a force to be reckoned with.

This four letter word people bend into two kissing curves that pucker into a point looks nothing like a real heart.  A real heart is messy, made up of pumping blood and so many veins and memories that keep it going.  And something else that you cannot fully name but know it is sweeter, more life-affirming than the oxygen that this organ provides.  It is that moment (years ago now, a recollection tattooed into your artery walls) when you said everything was fine, and your parents knew what you really meant was that you were slowly being swallowed by fog, and so sent you a care package full of sunlight, red chile pods, and pinon coffee.  Yes, that kept your blood pumping and chased away the darkness.  You were not alone.

It is on the journey home with your older sister and the promises you made each other to live as extraordinary beings (and the bottles of wine and long conversations that prompted those promises, now like so many matches lit and thrown into your enteral fires).  Then when she found her roots and wings, you found another brother.  Here is the solid earth-forged spirit that grounds, ready to remind you that you don't need to carry so much weight on you shoulders--shouldn't.  But there is more.  You find this ephemeral warmth in the taste of kimchi and oysters on the half-shell chased down with a dirty martini.  This is always somehow accompanied by images of your brother arranging all your boxes, most of them books, into your travel pod so you could bring your life home.  Or of him and wife walking through the park that was once your refuge on their wedding day. There was so much sunlight that afternoon.

And still, you find this thing--this beating, pumping thing--woven into each breath.  You can't even look at the inside of an orange peel without thinking of long full fingers scraping away pith one orange quarter at a time to transform this fruity carcass into leathery hugs, a reminder that your younger sister is always close though an ocean separates you.  Close enough that you can never simply tear a banana open with a quick tug of its gnarled stem but must carefully slice the skin apart from stem to nubby bottom so as to better preserve that yellowed husk; she would know somehow if you took a shortcut.  And you think of the man that loves her.  Here you know a kindred spirit, one who understands instinctively that the internal life is just as important than the external one--perhaps more so. There is much to be found on the page and the inward-turning gaze.

You don't have to be anything other than yourself with these people; you can be the quiet wildling with bare feet and kinky hair happy to get lost (found?) in a book or a garden--or a kitchen.  And when you can't always give yourself permission to be this elusive creature, they remind you that your soul was forged from ink and summers playing outside with your siblings and always, always from feeding the wonder and delight that makes each day worth getting up for.

That's the day-in-day-out of it: the barely contained smile from your sisters because they know you are all thinking the same thing...and probably shouldn't say it out loud.  We are surrounded by strangers, after all, and the thought is not fit for polite company.  Even the frantic lick of puppy tongues on your hands and pawing of your furry charges when you haven't seen them for some time tells you that your life is full. Or the smell of green chile stew and the pure pleasure of a tortilla fresh from the griddle in the kitchen you grew up in that reminds you at the end of the week that you are surrounded by love.

That's it.  That's the word.  Such a small one for an awful lot of feeling.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!

Writing at the Kitchen Table

Sure you have your own writing desk, one lovingly crafted over the years.  You can still see evergreen where it bleeds through the turquoise you painted over it, a tribute to the expansive lightness of your beloved skies.  The inevitable wear and tear of scratches and well-worn grooves where your feet rest on your chair are as familiar to you as the lines on the palm of your hands. And the scattered gemstones, carelessly placed daisies, and stacks of half-read books only add to this still life, a study of a writer's mind. 

But sometimes you need to forgo the creative splendor of that desk for the warmth and sanctity of the kitchen table.  Here you can spread out and make your journal and pen at home with the salt and pepper shakers.  Your hands can smooth the wrinkles from the homemade mustard and ochre tablecloth strewn with embroidered vines and buds impatient to burst open, a gift from your mother; this homey task is a welcome respite for your fingers, much more soothing than finding their way around the roughness of each wooden groove and lost story on your writing desk.  

The only music is the whistle of the kettle and the sound of you and your words breathing in unison.  Perhaps there is even some stew simmering on the stove, perfuming your cozy space with comfort and garlic.  There is no room for dainty tea cups here, just as there is no time for a lady-like cup of Earl Grey.  Only fat mugs will do, enough to hold the rich brew you concoct out of oat straw, alfalfa leaves, and astralagus root.  This is working tea.  It fills you up with nourishment from the earth and protects you from the elements.  Each sip brings you closer to the ground, where you write best.  

It is easier to plant your letters in that minerally dirt and watch words bloom.  Their sun is the glitter from the mica mugs from which you slurp your tea.  And you watch with the pleasure of a gardener who has pulled the last weed from her plot of land, as those words unfurl into sentences, and burst into story just as the tight buds on the tablecloth erupt into bloom.

Only at the kitchen table can you get your hands dirty and your mind clear.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!