We all live between two worlds.
In our inner kingdom, we play god, authoring dramas of love and dragons. In this bubbling cauldron of history and myth, prayer and spell, we are everything from hero to villain to prisoner trapped and tormented by things beyond our power and ken.
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Then there’s the outer world of bird, waterfall, manure. We navigate this kingdom with our physical bodies—we hear the old love song, taste the bitter coffee, touch the wild water.
As edgewalkers, we live our lives in both.
Might seem like an odd way to start a piece heralding the arrival of my grandson in the world this past week.
Hello, Wilkie!
But when something like this happens, it’s easy to go big, existential. To wonder what kind of world this innocent spirit has been bourne into.
The thing is, we know. We all know.
Which is the other reason for pondering these two realms—because it’s been said that newborns are closest to magic.
They’ve been held safe in an inner kingdom where anything is possible—eyelashes appear from nowhere; little ears that look like shells get sculpted out of the softest skin.
How is this even possible?
How quickly the magic can fade.
As soon as these little bodies burst into the outer kingdom, it can be easy to get caught up in the milestones—the how far, the how much. There are letters to learn, numbers to master, boo boos to kiss. This outer life can bring our human bodies to our knees, and then the existential questions become Why? and How will I bear this? maybe even most importantly, How will I rise?
As a parent, it can be easy to get caught up in the realities of this external realm, especially when well-meaning folks ask things like, “Is he walking yet?”
As a Bibi (the name I’m using instead of grandma) and as a woman who walks around with a wild altar on her back, I get to bring as much magic as I can into this little nugget’s life.
And I am not weird for wanting to do so.
Well, yes, I am, but I am not wrong to have this as my new mission in life.
Because studies have been done where babies were introduced to magic tricks. When a ball or truck “disappeared” behind a wall, even months-old babies already knew that the “rules” of the world were being broken.
And here—for me—is what matters most about this: the babies most captivated by these magic tricks became the most curious toddlers. The baby’s interest in the surprises of the world predicted their future cognitive ability.
In other words, babies who loved magic became curious and smart human beings, and oh my, do we need that in the world right now.
So, I cannot wait to bring this little one to the wild edges.
Where who knows what we might meet.
Where wind whispers secrets to pine.
Where water spirits sing.
And the two of us will use the shells of our ears to listen.
A Hit of Hope is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
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