I read a story called “The Yellow” by Samantha Hunt in the November 29th New Yorker. It tells a tale that lies on the edge of the tragic and the fantastic. In it, after a witnessing a miracle, a man says, ‘but I don’t believe in magic.’ A woman says, ” ‘That’s just like not believing in car accidents. Just because you don’t want them to happen doesn’t mean they don’t.’ She clucked at him, scolding.’It’s not belief. It’s whether or not you’re going to let magic ruin life. People pretend the world is ordinary every day.’ She held her hips. ‘Because they have to.'”
I’m not sure you can get to their links if you don’t subscribe to the New Yorker, but try this to read the whole story.
I hope that the magic in the story leads the characters to a new understanding of life, but it’s not guaranteed. I keep trying to ground myself in ordinary life, but magic keeps happening. If believing in it ruins my life, I hope it’s spectacular ruins, like those of Greece and Egypt and Guatemala.
After reading the story this morning, I checked my email and there was a new post on a blog I follow called Over The Moon,by a delightful young writer who shares her “succulent love affair with life.” This post starts out as a suggestion for a dictionary game, then gets into a discussion on believing in your own intuition and ends with a beautiful poem by Pablo Neruda on the dictionary.
In this season of rush and commercialism, in this time of electronic games and web searches, this post is a refreshing look inward into simpler forms. A little faith in the self, a little faith in the resilience of reference books, a desire for fun and games, a little help from an intuitive friend and a great poem added simple magic my morning. Hope you enjoy it, too.