“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats
Yesterday I picked up a board book that I used to read my daughter in her youngest years and read it to my toddler. I hadn’t read it in years since my 6-year-old daughter has moved on to more complex plot lines. As I read the beautifully illustrated pages, I was inspired by the words that seem to me to be part poetry and part prayer for the sacred inner child. They brought back that feeling of infinite possibility and boundless love that came with each of my kids as they were handed to me in the hospital. Here is part of The Crown On Your Head:
With your crown made of glittering, high-flying things,
you’ve got wind in your pocket, your wishes have wings.
You can run like you mean it…so, let the wind blow…
There’s just no telling how high you can go!
Whatever it is you choose to do, no one can do it exactly like you.
Ride on the big slide! And if you fall down, remember your glorious, marvelous crown.
It won’t flicker or fade. It won’t dim. It won’t leave.
ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS BELIEVE.
Do you, my child? I hope that you do.
The world is a wonderland waiting for you.
And you get to share it with all your friends, too!
They each have a crown that is faithful and true.
No one’s is brighter, no one’s is duller.
It’s only a crown of a different color.
So sometimes, just every now and then, whisper “I believe” again.
Your crown is your best friend forever, by far.
It tells the true story of just who you are.
That’s why every night, when I put you to bed,
I’m careful to kiss the crown on your head.
The Crown on Your Head by Nancy Tillman
And I wondered, when did I stop believing in this about me? I don’t mean that in a self-pitying way but in a way that has forgotten that there is a sacred inner child within me.
It strikes me that somewhere in the transition between my parents wishes for the beautiful life I would have and coming to care for myself, I have mastered the practicalities but forgotten the magic. And while I am more or less fine with that because I get along well enough, I wouldn’t wish that same pragmaticism-only for my kids.
And beyond my kids, is it possible for me to recognize the magic in you if I don’t recognize the magic in me? There has to be a maxim here that if I’m moved enough when I read it to my kids because I have witnessed their magic then I must believe it just a little bit – otherwise why read it at all?
There must be a way that doesn’t leave them narcissistic, spoiled or entitled to remind my kids of the magic inside them. Believing in our inner magic doesn’t mean we won’t do our chores and go to work, but possibly we’ll whistle more and find deeper joy when we do. Or hopefully we’ll listen to our own inspiration more if we do.
I’m considering reading this board book to them at tough moments all the way until they are 52 years old and beyond if I happen to be on the planet. If it reminds me of the flame of possibility that burns within me for as long as I live and love, all the better.
Surprised By Joy 