Living A Magical Life

Who Are You, Really?

a windowsill altar with makeshift gravy boat teapot, food and drink offerings, and magical curios
a windowsill altar with makeshift gravy boat teapot, food and drink offerings, and magical curios

a new year’s altar feat. a gravy boat masquerading as a tea pot.

–♥–

It’s snowing outside and I’m thinking of sovereignty.

Next to the bar we hit the samovar

She almost slipped right through my fingers

It was snowing outside and in her soul

Well, maybe you’re a dancer, and maybe I’m the king of old Siam

I thought it through

Best to let the illusion roll

— Jethro Tull, “She Said She Was A Dancer”

Under blankets of snow, we are each granted anonymity.

The snow falls and I am encased in my glitter hobbit hole.

I could be anyone.

I could become anyone.

I am light as air and heavy as stone. I can scream like a jay and cough like a mouse. I’m a tree, a dog, a firebird, a lump of sugar melting on a spoon, on a tongue, lost down the drain, puddled on the floor.

I can see all the wizards, black and white.

Can you feel them, yes? Touching hands before our eyes…

— Tori Amos, “Sister Janet”

It is a new year now, but the whoosh, whoosh of the cosmic spin cycle does not feel as if it has abated, merely shifted.

I swoon.

I rise and fall like tides, like annual flowers fading, dying, being born and blossoming bright in a sped-up film.

Who am I?

a New England forest lightly dusted with snow. Glacial boulders rear up from the autumn leaf-scattered ground and bare young trees sprout up amongst them. A blue sky and fluffy white clouds are visible behind the sparse pine trees.

I think it’s vital to ask ourselves this question from time to time.

Who am I, really?

The falling snow gives me permission to exhale and sink into a game of pretend.

Let’s pretend that we are granted a blank canvas, a fresh slate, a new start.

Let’s splash our soul onto that page, bold as brass, fearless as Wren on the Eagle’s shoulder.

Let’s see what comes out.

Wolf mother, where you been?

You look so worn, so thin

You’re a taker, devil’s maker

Let me hear you sing, hey ya hey ya

Wolf father at the door

You don’t smile anymore

You’re a drifter, shapeshifter

Let me see you run, hey ya hey ya

— First Aid Kit, “Wolf”

familiars

Who are you, really?

There’s no wrong answer.

There’s no such thing as a mistake that can’t be worked with, transformed, made part of the work as a whole. Grandma Dot taught me that. She was one of the most fearless and prolific painters I’ve ever known.

My mistakes fold back into myself. I learn from them, and those whose lessons I’ve not yet internalized will continue to repeat until I get the message.

That is right and good, albeit uncomfortable.

We are wounded, we scar, we heal.

We fall down. We get back up again.

Sometimes, we lie there for a minute, staring up at the sky, wondering where it all went wrong.

Sometimes, we bounce back up so fast it’s like we never went down at all.

We fall down. We get back up again.

Who am I, really?

I dissolve like a snowflake on the tongue, reform, and dissolve again. The wind lays me bare. I am mud on fire. I am salt water. I am air.

The cards splay out beneath my hands, reflecting me back at myself.

Who are you, really?

Good question.

Let’s ask it again, and again, and again.

xoxo

Paige Zaferiou

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3 Comments

  • Reply
    Beth
    February 18, 2016 at 1:51 am

    Beautiful. I love the way snow creates a magical fantasy land – ‘real life’ (whatever that is) on pause so we can dream, be different, be something else. Thank you for sharing this Paige, I really feel what you’re saying xxxx

  • Reply
    The Hit List - Birthing - The Tarot Lady
    February 20, 2016 at 9:43 am

    […] Who are you really?  Paige Zaferiou asks the question and answers it. […]

  • Reply
    Troy Degrasse
    March 12, 2016 at 11:21 am

    Initially, Alanna fears her magical Gift. But as sacred artists everywhere can attest, if you ve been chosen by the Divine to do their work in the world, there isn t much you can do to resist  and so Alanna learns to accept and master her magic, eventually founding a sweet school for shamans in the desert that breaks with the old boys only tradition.

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