The Magic of Magic

My eldest is in first grade now and starting to read transitional chapter books. For over a year his favorite literary journeys have included accompanying Jack and Annie of The Magic Tree House by Mary Pope Osborn to exotic times and places. He and my daughter have learned about medieval castles, volcanoes, the Terracotta Army, and the knights of Camelot. They've witnessed bravery, collaboration, and the utility of both research and action. They've learned that what you say actually does matter.

Since I have involved myself in the exploration of the series by reading or listening to the books together, I've been able to use the ideas from the stories as teaching tools. When my children argue, I have said, "Would Jack speak to Annie that way?" When I wanted to remind them to come when I call, I shout for Jack and Annie rather than scream my children's names and, taking on the characteristics of the fictional siblings they yell, "Coming Mommy," and race toward me. What's not to love?

Oh, that's right, there's magic. Shudder!

My children might learn to believe in magic. They might believe the impossible -- Maybe like Edison did before he invented the lightbulb. Or maybe they will not simply dream the unthinkable, but, like Martin Luther King try to enact it. Perhaps through the magics of creativity, of reason, of bravery and action they can change their lives, and others', for the better.

The Fullness of Life

Time is like a prostitute: lending herself to everyone, but giving herself to no one. Life rushes by in a series of moments; "now" experiences that become yesterday before one has time to savor them today. I rush paradoxically toward planned tomorrows while struggling to capture today with pictures and videos and diary notes so I can cherish my memories someday… when I have time.

More than one hundred years of moments forgotten in an instant as the last breath of life is exhaled. The uniqueness of my Grandfather's knowledge, perspective, and experience deleted completely with his death, inaccessible for the rest of time. Snippets of his life are retained in the memories of at least a hundred others, but they are our memories colored by our own perspectives. His singular experience is lost and, just as innumerable persons before him, he will be totally forgotten in a generation or two, as will I.

It seems we race before this precipice of death, which keeps pace with us, just one step behind. An accident, poor health, old age, anything can cause us to trip up, loose our balance and fall into the abyss of whatever constitutes death. In a desperate attempt to stave off the unavoidable, many treat the symptoms with surgery, drugs, and miracle cures as if by saying, "I don't look like I'm growing old," one might live forever. But we don't.

Life is short because life is now. This moment is it. My son protecting his toys from his very mobile baby sister, my Mom reading to her grandchildren, a final impression of the peaceful face of my Grandfather before he is buried. This is life: the joy, the sadness,
the fullness of life.