We have all experienced forms of magic in our lives. The unexplainable... whether because you couldn't define, or just didn't want to... the unexplainable happens to us all. You feel it. It's in the air, the ground. You feel its energy course.
I had three such moments at camp. Lest you believe that all was pain and misery... it was not.
Fire. Drums. Shimmering stars in the sky. Dancers in makeup kicking up sand as they glide along to the slow methodolical beat of drums pounding in tones that remind us of the animals within.
A girl... long hair flowing in the breeze... visibile only because of the licks of flame of a bonfire behind her. Barefoot in the sand, hands grasping a pillar of wood for support and connection. A man behind her... dancing, swaying in the sand, whip slithering from his hand like a snake yearing to curl around it's prey.
The first night, a dance. Kisses of the whip. Warmth of the fire. Moaning of an innocent girl caught up in the heat of the moment... the animal testing its chains. The girl and the gasps... beautiful... the warmth of the flame hinting at what was still to come.
The next night, a return. Hands grasp wood like an old lover. The dance is begun yet again, the rythym of the drums pulsing through veins, fire hotter, higher, licking at bare skin. The snake darts out again, this time not sated with teases. Blood is what it wants, and blood is what it gets. Growling, screaming, moaning, hissing... wounds are opened and spirits soar unfettered.
Two walk together into the sand. They fly out.
Another moment, another place, another cast of characters. A patch of green, flowers and soft, healthy grass and leaves. Sunlight glittering through gaps in the trees. A soft breeze promising safety, compassion, release. Two stand in front of a wise old tree. The two unrelated, but at the same time wound in blood and love tighter than any pairing can be. Brother and sister, basking in the sunlight, and ready to make art. The artist, with her photographic paintbrush, stands ready to capture a connection into timelessness.
What was meant to be a tug-of-war becomes a reckoning. With every hard slam of the leather tails, another part of him is unearthed. Each stroke, each thud latches onto the bad, and pulls it out. Each stress that he tries so hard to hide, gets pulled out one-by-one with each stroke of the whip... so lovingly and forcefully applied by the one he trusts the most.
As the sunlight falls, so does his tears. Quiet moans turn to sobs, turn to cries, turn to a dam opening its gates and letting the river out full force. Release flows, what would be seen as misery is actually a blessing. The weight on the poor lads shoulders finally has somewhere to go.
Some still remains. And there is one way to unearth it. Surgically the whip lashes out with its single tail. Each brush brings sting... sting brings fire... fire heals in the sun. The tears fall, and from his throat comes passion, anger, grief, happiness, sadness... until it turns into the sound of the bloodthirsty wolf howling throughout the countryside. Loud, strong, bloodcurdling screams rack the air and echo through the forests surrounding this once peaceful field.
Blood is shed. Hunger is satiated. The two who are one become so once again. Family is blood. The same blood now runs through two sets of veins. As it should.
Magic. How do you define it? How do you feel it? And can you once it happens?
Is magic love? Or is love... magic?