Magick In The Mundane

It's something I've been struggling with for a while: this idea of finding magick in the mundane.  The everyday.  The ordinary.  The reality.

For me, they've always been two dichotomous ideas.  Either or.  Yes or no.  True or false.  But never both, simultaneously.

It's like trying to hold onto a dream when you're awake.  At first, when the edges are still rough, you can almost grasp it.  Things that aren't possible in real life are still possible, maybe. Ideas that the logical mind dismisses as illusions are still somewhat tangible.  But the harder you reach for them, the faster they disappear into the ether.

And without dreaming, with the awake mind in charge, it seems even more impossible.  Too much judgement.  Too many firm lines and boundaries.  Too much to keep you grounded, to prevent you from flying.

This world or that one.  Magick or real.  Never both.  Never happening together.

But the further I tread down into the path of my own soul, the more I hear it: there must be both.  And not this vacillating back and forth, either.  But simultaneous.  Coexisting.  Feeding off one another, blurred boundaries.

Seeing magick in the everyday: the traffic jams, the red tape, the facts and figures and carefully controlled and overseen requirements.  Seeing magick there.  It's something I struggle with, something I haven't figured out how to do.

There are moments, of course.  In the quiet, in the stillness.  You forget about the boundaries.  The mind wanders into the "crazy places".  You can glimpse- just for a second, out of the corner of your eye- things that aren't there.  Feel- just as impulse, a reflex- things that aren't tangible.  Smell... anything.  Ideas.  Words that haven't been invented yet.

But then the conscious mind rebels, violently shoves you back.  Here, feet firmly on the ground, rules and regulations in place.  It chastises you for daydreaming, reminds you of all the duties you have as a responsible adult.  Tells you to shut up and keep moving.  Binds you.

And I want to vilify that voice.  Dismiss it.  Categorize it as irredeemably bad and try to rid myself of it.  But I need that voice, just as much as I need the quiet madness.  I need both.  How to have both at the same time?  I don't know.

There are some rituals they tell you to practice.  And they help, certainly.  The quiet, steady breaths.  The creative practices of writing, drawing, painting, dancing, singing.  The thoughts you can think without dismissal.  But they're only ever temporary buoys in the sea of real life.  I can't seem to stay above water, can't seem to lift myself out.

And perhaps, or most likely, this is how it works.  You have the moments as just moments. You take the pauses as just pauses.  And it takes a long, long time before you start to ingrain that way of living.  It takes a lot of practice before you remember how to let go while still riding the firm rails.

So perhaps the answer is what the answer always is: just be.  Don't worry about what it will be, don't think too hard about what is was, don't try to make it anything other than what it is.  Just be and know that it will change.  Everything changes, always.  Without us trying to make it change it just does.

And perhaps, that itself is the magick.  Answering my own questions, realizing that I already know.    Listening to the whispers in the dark.  Feeling my way along.  Perhaps that's the route I've always been on.  The only difference is, now I know.