Day 11 Creative Words- Magic

Today was magical. Michael and I made our way over to the Labyrinth stage, with tea in hand. Our plan was to check in about our workshop timing, then go enjoy the beginning of the rest of the festival; this is not what happened. As we were standing chatting with Mira (the event co-ordinator) we were asked to be part of the opening ceremony for the Labyrinth stage. We were body painted, given a reading each to call in one of the 7 directions, and learned a circle dance which we were to then lead for a crowd of hundreds. It was such an honour to be part of this magical opening ceremony which focused on the sacred nature of our water; the water which makes up 75% of each of us, the same water which runs in our streams, and fills our oceans. The festival has only just begun and already I feel satiated, included and as though I have contributed. Love Love Love.

My afternoon was filled with Shambala wonder. This meandering poem speaks of bits and pieces of the happenings during the day. Don’t look for sense, in the state of mind I was in this wonderful day, there is none.



She holds the tiny promise of magic in her hand and decides to commit.
Time passes, the acrid taste slowly fades.
The frayed edges of two worlds begin to let go into one another.
Eyes glassy and telling,
salt water pools.
“I love her” he says.
The man he tells, blinks, nothing more, returns to mundane this and that.

The sand and rock make the feet slide in a new way.
Music.
She finds the rifts of import and wonder to move to.
What will come next?
What will inspire an old way, show it a new mind.
What will these two create together?
Magic.

Magic in my hand and a decision to commit.
There is a rabbit hole fear, what happens if I can’t get out?
I have to go in every time to remember that this answer only matters at ground level.

Through the night, hand in hand till,
the pull towards tingling skin is too much.
The hunger becomes all there is.
She slides hands over the same landscape time and time again,
every time finding heat and newness in old skin.
A “skin bag” she thinks, laughing.

We are all, each one of us, hidden inside our skin bag
With the same organization, give or take.
What separates us is the magic,
Some of our own creation,
Some the creation of the universe
and sometimes the promise held in a hand and committed to,
one which doesn’t change the colour,
only the hue.

“I love you“ he says.
”I know“ she says,
and strokes the landscape for the first time again.
Magic.


”Do you believe in magic?“ is the question in 12 day journal #116