The world. Our world. So beautiful, so precious, so fragile. At times I feel the rotation of it and hear the universe rushing by with inspired gasps at just how many other worlds there are. There are millions. And even more astonishing is the number of worlds within each of us. My book is a tribute to one of the most powerful worlds swirling around inside of me.
From when I was a child I knew this inner world existed. I would play outside in the fresh air, pretending to be hundreds of miles from where I stood, and a hundred lifetimes back before this one. There was magic in the air and it came from my soul. I put it there, with a dirty twig and a thrust of my small hand- the magic surged from my grip and out into the atmosphere. And at that moment the wind would pick up or a cloud would scurry passed the sun and I would believe that I wielded some power over the world! How encouraging for a little mind. So my world grew, and so did the magic.
As an adult, the magic manifests itself in more casual ways. I no longer shout commands at the trees as I walk to a lunch meeting or wave my hand over a puddle (to part the water) before I get the bottoms of my dress pants wet. I keep the magic to myself, but I bless people everyday with it. How, you ask? With my belief in their magic, with my support of their abilities and power, with my unwavering faith that all of us are inherently good and capable of whatever we can dream up.
And then I go home to the quiet and I lose myself in my story world, and I give this incredible power to my characters, to be the rulers of their fate, to wield the boldest magic ever imagined and to express the most intimate and dark and private and compassionate parts of me in such a way that I am bleeding on the page.
And then I see the world. Our world. And my world, in harmony.