Mystical Me
Ah, mystical me. My earliest memories are of my bewildering and urgent need to understand my relationship with God. I recall that I was too small to even articulate my anguish or the confusion that drove my search. On one hand, I experienced God in every moment and every thing. On the other, my intimate awareness of the divine directly contradicted the religious views held by everyone else, who looked for “Him” “out there.” My young friends perceived God as a passive/aggressive Santa Claus. Their parents’ views were far less fanciful, and my parents seemed to have no views at all.
My confused little girl self still resides in my mind, her solemn eyes staring out at a world that utterly belies the grace that she understands as God.
I suppose that irreconcilable schism is the mystic’s elemental dilemma. Oddly, it also justifies my officially marked bipolar disorder.
It’s the magical thinking.
Harry Potter notwithstanding, most folks consider magical thinking to be either a symptom of psychopathology or the ultimate flirtation with evil. In response, I humbly submit What the BLEEP Do We Know!? in which today’s best minds explain scientifically what the mystic experiences emotionally and spiritually, i.e. magical thinking as cutting-edge theory.
I love the notion of magic, by the way. It honors my reverence for nature and hearkens to the ancient Celtic blood that feeds my heart. Besides, I am convinced that God speaks to each of us in the language we best understand. My peculiar orientation in life has shown me that magic, prayer, and quantum physics are simply different descriptions of humanity's interaction with God.
Too bad that realization does not translate into nose-wiggling manifestation, a la Bewitched. Alas, conscious creation begins with an intimate understanding of one’s self, and I was not blessed with an enhanced perspective of that.
Instead, I perceive the surreal macrocosmic/microcosmic interplay of potential. I notice symbols and patterns in seemingly unrelated events, as well as the metaphysical tides that affect them. I see the disparities between what people believe and what they think they believe, and I watch how their cognitive dissonance evolves into drama.
It's the mystic’s elemental dilemma again ~ the excruciating awareness of how we humans corrupt our inherent magnificence with our self-identification as sinners.
So what’s a bipolar, word-weaving mystic to do? She conjures courageous women, compassionate men, and peaceful roads not taken. Then she weaves them with magic and primal grace into stories that remind the soul of its holiness.
Magical thinking, for certain. Will you join me?
