Old Magic
“The decisive question for man is: Is he related to something infinite or not? That is the telling question of his life. -Carl Jung
I have a little sticky note in my house that says, “Resurrection is the oldest magic in the Universe.” Those words came to me during a meditation several years ago, when I was overwhelmed by the seemingly endless destruction embedded in our collective psyche and in the world. Images of suffering had been flooding my mind for several days; I finally decided to slow down and sit with myself. The images kept rolling in, flashes of suffering: human, creature, planet. And then, those words. “Resurrection is the oldest magic in the Universe.” Like stumbling upon a cool, flowing river after hiking through the desert, those words broke through. All the noise went silent; the images retreated. My mind was calm. I drank from that water, and I still do. I keep those words where I can see them, and they have become a sort of drumbeat, calling my soul back to awareness. “Resurrection is the oldest magic in the Universe. Resurrection is the oldest magic in the Universe.”
We need the transcendent. We’re so thirsty for it.
I’m sitting in my office looking out the window. Spring is almost here, but today the weather has retreated back towards winter. Rainy, windy, cold. An atmospheric storm. And right outside, a handful of crows are playing; they aren’t hiding from the storm, they’re surfing on it. In a few minutes, they’ll find a tree to rest on together, but for this moment, they’re enjoying how they can play with the wild unpredictability of the wind. After the crows fly away, my attention turns to the trees; the wind is moving wildly against their bodies. I’m reminded that trees require wind; their survival actually depends on it. Wind triggers a process called thigmomorphogenesis (the alteration of growth in response to physical stimulation). Wind and rain strengthen the plant’s structure, making its trunks shorter and thicker and its root system more anchored in the soil; over time, it becomes less prone to breaking—even in severe storms. The crows and the trees know exactly what to do; there is a kind of intimacy between them and the storm.
How wise storms and bodies are when they get together.
Pull out your map, the one you use to find your way when you’ve been wandering for too long in the desert—when you’ve found yourself lost in a dark wood—when you’ve been suddenly thrust into the underworld. The map that you hold deep in your belly, your place of clear knowing. The thing that orients you to your life on Earth and to your place in the cosmic story. If only we were born with the map etched into our skin… instead, we must learn to dig deep into our souls and psyches to find it. Pull it out and remember these two coordinates: Resurrection is the oldest magic in the Universe—and—We are in an ancient, intimate relationship with the storm. Find yourself amid these two. The story will unfold.