It seems that magic strings strung with irresistible dreams are a sure route to being roped-in by disappointment.
When I was a little boy, the little girls on my block taught me how to make headwear and necklaces from repeated insertion of the stems of tiny wildflowers into each other. Do you remember those?
Later, in my young adult years, I’d make necklaces while camping or hiking in the forests of the west-U.S. coastal states. I’d use acorns, pine cone whatchamacallits (the little detatchable pine cone parts which comprise the cone itself, whose official scientific name is obviously unknown to me), and any other assorted seeds, small bones, small dried leaves, etc., all the small string-worthy artifacts abundantly carpeting the ancient old-growth habitats.
I never projected any magic purpose onto those endeavors. They were simply ways of quietly appreciating, reverencing, and creatively exploring the experience of humble integration with the forest, and with the sensed need to embody that integration by wearing the forest on my own skin.
No magic purposes of imploring and pleading to destiny. No irresistible dreamings for wishes (wishes which, in retrospect, would have all been truly superceded by the beauty at hand right there, right at that moment). No strings of fantasy, roping me into self-charted routes to disappointment. Just pure sensing of the simple present, and, when lucky enough, just being taught by little girls how to make REAL crown jewels out of tiny wildflowers.
–John Powell (In response to “Promethea.”)