At the beginning of the twentieth century Lévy Bruhl, the French anthropologist, called it “participation mystique”. More recently Morris Berman refers to roughly the same concept as “participating consciousness” (The Reenchantment of the World), a way of being and knowing that doesn’t radically objectify things so that we can destroy them and lose a sense of belonging to a universal soul; that sense of unity with everything that we are all born with as magical children.
Creative, sensitive people never have participation mystique completely stolen from them. There are always those times when, lost in the creative process, we have the distinct sense afterwards of having been “lost” in the activity, of having become one with the process. Conventional time dissolves and unity prevails. The Chinese call it ch’i (life force or energy flow). Ch’i literally translates as “air or breath”. Perhaps not so coincidentally “soul” was referred to as pneuma in Greek philosophy—meaning, literally, wind or breath. We can understand the profound depth of these associations when we speak of being inspired—literally “breathed into”.
Being mystically “breathed into”, then, takes us into a state of inspiration in which we can become lost to creativity and unity with what is at hand and the universe as a whole—a state that counters the wanton destruction that continues around us. When I get lost this way in writing, I call it “writing underwater”—a sense of breathing and being one with something deep and flowing.
This is a long preamble to what I really want to talk about.
Many of you will know Alice Walker as the author of “The Colour Purple”; but she is also a short story author, poet and political activist who was very prominent in the black feminist movement of the ‘80s and ‘90s. She remains extremely outspoken on issues of social and environmental justice.
I love her work, but one of her most stunning publications is a simple book for magical children—young and old—who can still grasp and hold onto the edges of another reality that may yet participate in saving the earth and ensuring that the magic remains in the souls of our magical children. I transcribe the short story, There Is a Flower ath the Tip of My Nose Smelling Me, and its beautiful postscript; but please buy the book for children and adults you love. With Stefano Vitale’s illustrations, this will remain a bedside treasure of mystical participation for generations:
There Is a Flower at the Tip of My Nose Smelling Me
By
Alice Walker
There is a flower
At the tip
Of my nose
Smelling
Me.
There is a sky
At the end
Of my
Eye
Seeing
Me.
There is a road
At the bottom
Of my
Foot
Walking me.
There is a dog
At the end
Of my leash
Holding
Me.
There is an ocean
At the top
Of my
Head
Swimming me.
There is a sunrise
At the edge
Of
My skin
Praising
Me.
There is water
At the tip
Of my tongue
Tasting me.
There is a song
Deep in
My body
Singing
Me.
There is a dance
That lives
In my bones
Dancing
Me.
There is a poem
In the cradle
Of my Soul
Rocking me.
There is a pen
Nestled
In my hand
Writing
Me.
There is a story
At the end
Of my arms
Telling
Me.
A Note from the Author
One day I went walking in the forest near my house with my dog, along an old logging trail. Redwoods rose to left and right, the sky was a brilliant blue with a few threads of clouds, the earth was scented with spring. As I walked, the wonder of myself as part of all this overcame me. I began to sing: “I come out of You, my love. I come out of You!” Over and over, with the greatest gratitude and joy. As soon as I got home, my big black lab trotting just as happily beside me, I wrote this book, which was not a book then, but a thank you note.
**************
If you are moved by this story, then an intuitive understanding and longing are probably a part of that moving energy. Finding mystical participation is something we can all journey toward together.
"A new world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day I can hear her breathing"
The beautiful song, "Let Her Go", by Jan Garrett has been a favourite of mine for many years. It speaks to me of letting go with difficulty of my own daughter as she became a woman of great strength and independence. She is now making a difference in the world. But no matter the circumstnces in which we find ourselves forced to "let go", I hope the music and lyrics of this song are inspirational and comforting.
"Let Her Go" music and video just for you (click "show more" on video information box to see lyrics with song)
She's just as pretty as a picture, glowing thru the years
Light and shadow, all woven together
She sends you her love forever, and a song to bless your soul
Singing in her bright spirit, you can feel it, hear it Let her go.....let her dance.....Let her run through the willows in the wind
Let her sing.....and take her chances
Let her fancy free her soul
Let her go.....let her fly.....Let her throw back her head with laughter
Let her by, don't try to follow after.....Let her go She was the sun and the moon in the garden of your heart
The lifeline you could always come home to
And now it's her turn to venture into new worlds of her own
So let your whole life caress her, let heaven bless her Let her go.....let her dance.....Let her run through the willows in the wind
Let her sing.....and take her chances
Let her fancy free her soul
Let her go.....let her fly.....Let her throw back her head with laughter
Let her by, don't try to follow after.....Let her go Caught in a body of circumstance, this day is too small for her soul
She'll slip out into the silence of a starry night,Barefoot all the way home Let her go, let her fly.........say goodbye..........Let her go
Sometimes I feel compelled to write something at a particular time. The last few days haven’t been so great. I began my last entry, “The Butterfly and the Babushka”, with the sentence, "Between a single birthday and the death to which it acts as guarantor, there is usually lots of room for experience". That was a referrence--unconscious I know--to a one year anniversary of things that have me struggling a little emotionally right now.
You see, last year on December 7, some of you will know that Nancy and I were in a terrorist bombing in Varanasi as we attended evening prayers to the Ganges. We were just 30 metres in front of the blast, but the major force of it was probably a few feet above our heads. We were luck, but it killed a little girl instantly just two days before her second birthday. I won’t talk about the other victims, not because they’re not important, but because we can all appreciate the horror of a child’s death in any form. As you all read this, I’d like you all to whisper or speak the child’s name to give verbal shape to her life and death—“Swastika Sharma”. Two women friends of ours from Victoria were playing with her just before the blast—“Swastika Sharma”, the whisper goes.
My mother’s birthday was November 30. She died on December 15 after the bombing; so in a way we’re right between the anniversary of her birthday and her death: “Between a single birthday and the death to which it acts as guarantor, there is usually lots of room for experience”—the death of Swastika.
Patterns shape the unconscious in very strange ways. The “Butterfly and the Babushka” is a true story; and so is the life and death of my mother. As December 15 approaches, I feel her presence layered on me—she the babushka in death to me as I continue living. Yes. There is sadness; but I feel joy in her enfolding presence.
I guess I want to say that she wasn’t the perfection of motherhood; but every nesting self that still remains a part of me—scarred in living--she always provided some touch-up paintwork on me as best she could. Sometimes her hand wasn’t so steady or her eye clear to see my needs; but it doesn’t matter so much. She loved me the best she knew how and the life she lived is enough to educate me for the rest of my days. Above all she talked of the need for love and justice in her later years. I know she felt a pasion for this she could never fully express.
I’d like the memories of my mom to be a celebration of motherhood as it’s lived in love--imperfectly. It should be the same for fathers, too. Unfortunately, we have a language of the singular when it comes to primary caregiver. I never hear in my work, the plural—primary caregivers. It’s as if there is an inherited cultural norm of speaking this way that creates a poverty of parenting experiences for many children and their fathers. I honestly believe bonding and attachment can be quite balanced in a parenting-child relationship where there is a dad. Of course, this isn’t always the case and when it isn’t mom can capably provide the attachment an infant needs to grow up in confidence and security.
This time of year is a time of darkness in what is an age of darkness. But there is hope that comes with intent and action. Tonight is a full moon—the "Poya" moon we loved to celebrate so much in Buddhist Sri Lanka. And we look towards festivals of light: Hanukkah on December 20; Solstice on December 22; Christmas on December 25. I hope we can support the nurturing growth of a new generation of children to lead us out of the darkness beginning now. It’s their future really—and the future of our children’s children. I think we can best help them by carefully re-thinking meaning and holding a new kind of space for them where there is justice for all. This in memory of my mother and Swastika Sharma.
Between a single birthday and the death to which it acts as guarantor, there is usually lots of room for experience. My life is long enough that it holds like the visible babushka doll many fully nested experiences—those memories or dreams that the body holds as if they were designed to fit and be carried forever for some purpose. And I’ve often wondered about those thing—their purpose. Now I believe it’s some common wisdom that’s meant to be shared. You know—a bit like the old village storyteller who was burned at the stake or dismissed so that people could create myths for nothing but profit.
I think most of the old story tellers were women—wise and bold. They probably all had eyes as clear as diamonds and soft as mist--grandmothers. That’s what babushka means, you know. I think I’m a bit of a grandmother; so let’s not allow gender to get in the way here—this is storytelling.
It’s a curious thing. If I let go of what others might expect me to say or remember, I can easily feel the things that naturally nest in me. Even as I write, I remember two or three summers ago sitting on a bus by myself looking through the window on a sunny day as we passed a beautiful garden with an expanse of lawn. A magnolia close to the house was flowering with those distinctive, large pale-pink cloudy blooms that could as easily float up as fall down. A girl sat on a branch in a pink, flouncy dress the colour of a magnolia blossom. The magnolia dropped two blooms and she followed. It was moon-gravity under that tree because--I swear--all three fell in elegant slow motion. I remember letting out a little gasp, unsure that she would hit the ground and hurt herself, or be lifted and carried off by a sudden breeze. I saw her laugh as she tumbled amongst a profusion of other fallen magnolia blossoms and then I relaxed. Just one of those experiences that nest in me. Perhaps it’s waking experiences that have a dream quality to them that are most easily held in this way.
If you’re reading this, then you’ve had the experience I speak of when you see a baby or a child you think you’d just love to hold; even a complete stranger to you. It happened to me once with a little girl I knew. One day I just had that urge to hold her in my arms as her mom cradled her. Unfortunately, I felt a little ill—sniffles or scratchy throat. You know what I mean. You just say to yourself, “Not this time; I’ll see her again”.
Well, the next time I saw her was in a dream. I didn’t know who it was at first. It was just a bundled blanket off the edge of an outside skating rink where children and adults glided happily around the ice on a bright winter’s day. I was curious about the bundle and as I drew closer I could see an infants face. There was something ominous that filled me like a warning babushka just inside my skin. As I leaned over her, I could see the tiniest smear of blood at the edge of one nostril. A kindly woman, her caregiver—not her mother—appeared, smiling a greeting. I told her something was wrong with the child.
“No”, she said. “She’s just fine”.
Unheeding her assurances, without hesitation I swept her up in my arms and headed off along a snow path that traversed the lower part of the hill on which the rink was cut.
All I could think was that I needed to get her to a hospital. The snow was pure and fluffy all around me, reflecting a crystal light. As the path led me to the lower corner of a house in front of which I would pass, I looked uphill to my left and saw five pieces of snow break softly from the smooth snow of the hillside. Each gently tumbled and gathered more snow as they tumbled to intercept my path. Four of them stopped short, but one continued and came to a stop on the path right in front of me. I still held the child safely and gently in my arms, but could go no further until I had picked up the fluffy snowball in both hands.
No sooner had I lifted it than it began to move from inside. Snow broke away as if it were soft shell from a hatching egg. First there was a flash of scarlet, then blue, followed by yellow. The brilliance of rich, primary colours emerged from the purest white of the snow and took the form of a huge butterfly unfolding its wings from a cocoon. In a state of wonder I held still my hands as the butterfly faced me. I brought it toward my face. The butterfly extended its proboscis and made contact with my lower lip—hard, unlike the softness of the dream. It wanted me to know that I had been kissed; and then it flew off in a riot of colour. I looked down in my arms to see that the child had disappeared.
I awoke suddenly and bit my lower lip where the butterfly had kissed me. My lip still held the feeling and I knew on awakening that I had been holding that same child I had chosen not to hold because of my sniffles.
Well, I moved away and never did get the opportunity to hold that little girl. About one and a half years later I was following up on some old contacts and discovered that the little girl had died six months earlier. There’s something about the babushka in me that held that child in my dream and witnessed something profoundly magical. She flew off, transformed and left me with a kiss. Grandmother that I am, I’ll always carry a part of some essence of her nested inside of me.
What do I mean when I use the term, the Magic Child? It’s loaded for sure; and I don’t want to leave anyone--parents in particular--with the idea that there are chosen ones in whom we can identify the qualities of genius or the supernatural. No. My definition is less romantic and mysterious; but all the more promising for our children and their gifts to the world because of the absence of these exclusive qualities.
I’m referring to what I’ll call common magic that I believe all children are born with and from whom it is slowly eroded by the disciplines of cultures. William Wordsworth conveyed this idea of something essential that is lost in his poem, “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy,
The Youth, who daily father from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
One doesn’t need to be scared off by the mention of Heaven as a Christian, Muslim, or Jewish thing; but I would call it an emblem of faith in something that attends the first breath and cry of a baby entering the world; so let’s leave theology and philosophy to one side as we focus our faith on the child itself.
I have my own recalled experiences of common magic—some things remembered in my head, others as things remembered in my body. I’ll call them memories of colours and qualities of light that illuminated profound experiences in nature. It wasn’t set apart from me:
I was of the things experienced And knew them in a special way; Then, as with the youth in Wordsworth’s poem, It faded into common day.
In my experience as a counsellor, I’ve spoken to many adults who describe in their own unique ways early recollections of knowing that were then lost. Maybe you have some of your own recollections—recollections of common magic.
Once in a while history or fiction captures the essence of children with common magic still apparent. Sometimes tragedy strikes and at other times it produces adults of enormous capacities to change the world; others are constantly and challengingly outside the box; some become famous; others stay out of the limelight, but are palpably different and always drawing the curiosity of those who had their magic stolen along the way.
I believe Einstein was and remained a magic child; he was a challenge to conventional education—a failure in many ways; and yet child-like he went on to imagine a universe that could not be seen in conventional ways. He had principles he refused to compromise and remains one of the most quotable people ever. Here’s one I love that applies to my philosophy of parenting: "If people are good only because they fear punishment, and hope for reward, then we are a sorry lot indeed".
Anyone who has taken the opportunity to read the diaries of Anne Frank will recognize in her enduring spirit during her years of concealed isolation in that house in Amsterdam a magic child waiting to burst forth upon the world with hope and optimism. There was always something about her, which comes through her writing, that seems exceptional; and yet it was only the ordinary qualities of common magic apportioned to each child at birth. She had the good fortune of being supported by parents who understood the nurturing their daughter needed to flourish in the most extraordinarily oppressive circumstances. It was indeed a loss to the world when a betrayal and typhoid killed her shortly after the Nazis interned her in a concentration camp.
The nature of my work through the years has brought me into contact with children who have been subjected to terrible ordeals.
One I recall in particular was a nine-year-old magic child who held on to this essence despite family and societal abuses ranged against her. I’ll call her Josie. Josie was medicated on Ritalin because of behaviours in school and a convenient diagnosis of ADHD that prevented appropriate diagnosis of the environmental conditions she had to daily endure. She struggled academically, but could represent symbolically an understanding of her world that was stunning, although unnoticed by all but a few. She was spirited for sure, exuding an aura of strength that was too often framed as defiance. Calm or aroused, there was a light in her eyes that was striking in its power to hold the attention and curiosity of perceptive adults around her. You see, she had an innate sense of what was just and unjust and could articulate it, but because she had already been put in a diagnostic box, it prevented many from seeing the uncorrupted wisdom that emanated from the spirit of her common magic. After terrible experiences at home she would turn up at school with behaviours that were a barometer of what she’d suffered. Her teacher would insist the reason for her behaviours were that she had not taken her meds. I would discover in confidence with her that she had in fact taken them. On other occasions she would be attentive, happy and relaxed. The teacher would report with relief that today Josie had taken her meds. I would discover in confidence that she had in fact not taken them. Eventually, we got the facts of her life into the light of day. School, Child Protective Services and Parents were embarrassed. Her teacher even cried tears of remorse. Changes were made that worked for a while. The sad ending to this story is that many years later, a trusted ally who worked at the school and along with with me cared deeply about Josie saw her at a social function. I was curious and not a little excited to hear how she had developed. My ally informed me that her features had changed little but that the light had gone out of her eyes. The magic child had been destroyed.
Another child I’ll call Natalie was academically exceptional; she was bored by the challenges of class. The school was wise and resourced enough to offer her creative options of expression. She too had family difficulties after divorce, but the energy of her presence had all the qualities of common magic. Her homeroom teacher was wise and probably a magic child herself; but given the frustrations of teaching with a class too large with many troubled children, the teacher had repeatedly handled a particular student in an inappropriate way. One day nine-year-old Natalie asked to speak with her teacher after class. Her teacher reported to me that Natalie had respectfully challenged her unfair treatment of the student in question and suggested that she might have handled the situation differently. The teacher was clear in acknowledging to me that Natalie was correct, respectful and appropriate in how she brought the issues to her attention. She told Natalie that she was right and thanked her for helping her understand what she was doing--a magic child, who, I understand, retains this quality to this day.
Disabilities don’t foreclose the qualities of common magic. For many years I was acquainted with a woman who has cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheelchair. Common magic emanated from her like fireside warmth. She spoke in unusual ways about life experiences and perceptions of the world that had the effect of unbalancing those who listened, so that people were naturally required to rethink presumptions. Her common magic included an ability to induce a smile in all around her and yet it was not an intentional thing she did. It simply came from the indefinable essence of the magic child that in her was irrepressible.
One final example I’ll share is in having come to know W. O. Mitchell, the great Western Canadian author. I saw him daily over a period of several months in his later years. Like Einstein, a mischievous smile was never far from his lips. He was an oral storyteller at heart and would always be ready with a delivery that could hold one spellbound. Perhaps what is less well known about him was his commitment to issues of simple justice. Many decades ago he helped gain the pardon of a young man jailed for a serious crime. That man went on to dedicate his entire life to helping others with determination and great humility. If you get a chance, read W. O. Mitchell’s Who Has Seen the Wind you will understand the common magic behind the pen of this breathtaking story of a boy growing up on the Canadian Prairies.
I have a firm belief in principles of being with children that will help preserve these natural ways of knowing--common magic--in the face of systems in society that would take them away. At times I won’t be able to avoid speaking as a counsellor who has had many years of experience with children; but I’ll attempt to convey what I mean with stories that I hope will be inspirational in shifting the paradigm from raising children to nurturing their growth. I trust you’ll see what I mean as time goes by.
