The Beginner

Many years ago in another place less confused than here and now,
a business friend spoke of his eight year old daughter.
“She is of a spriteful nature,” he proudly announced,
then added in a whisper, “perhaps a bit fey like my gre-gre-ma.”

He sighed in mild despair …

“I am of a mind that she should learn and follow,
but my wife is fearful of what she calls ‘olde magic’.
So, I am thinking of getting her a magic set for fun –
and know you might be able to help in the choice.”

He knew that I was a conjurer adept with ball and rings,
but also a father with two daughters grown and gone.
I gathered his request was about secrets more than tricks
as a person lost with the challenges of a feckless world.

I gently asked if he had nurtured either path early on,
shutting off electronic things to allow imagination to grow?
He laughed and told of pots & pan drums with spoon,
and castles built of wooden blocks and garlands on the fridge.

So, I advised he continue and return when she was twelve,
and if she asked of such a boon I might readily agree.
For magic is not found in a kit-box or by chasing elves.
“When she can tell me what magic is, then we can begin.”

He did that and more as a father might, exploring by her side;
and then she did too, grow I mean, and it finally came to me.
I guided her adventure in appreciating awe and wonder
and even coached a trick or two learned from a dusty book.

and she asked fine question about ploys and stratagems
to enliven boring moves and mask sleights in smallish hands.
Then she performed once for family and shut the project down.
“I will never practice as I should for my mind is on the wing.”

I watched her advance to personhood of female persuasion,
with a different form of magic in walk and wink and smile,
and eyes into which one might fall and never escape,
with wit to challenge all demons and hold dread fear at bay.

She chose to become a therapist for wounded soldiers –
to mend bones and heart and troubled minds alike.
Her beauty claimed attention and her laughter dulled the pain,
and her hands brought back live, and hope and joy and more.

So, I find that in magic I am but a beginner, you see;
with the pretending at impossible things but a seed,
and fertile soil and maybe even the nurturing rain.
For I am of this olde magic too, and will ever be.

That's a wonderful poem. Perhaps, without that foray into magic, she would have taken a different path. I think we never really appreciate the effect of all the little things that happen in our lives.

Very nice