This time of year, when everything turns to gold and purple and grey, my mind turns to Harry Potter. The books were made for the frosted crunch of Autumn, for cold nights and roaring fires, for pumpkins and odd creatures, magic and mystery. I re-read the books every so often, and each time I enter into the world of Hogwarts, I remember what drew me in the first time.
The story captures imagination and possibility.
As a child, I spent most of my time in church or at my conservative Christian school, where much of what we consider childhood classics were dismissed. I missed out on many of the essential stories that explore myth and mystery. I never read fairytales or watched Disney movies or learned about the Greek or Roman gods. Both Cinderella and Antigone were a complete mystery to me. Add Halloween and Santa Claus and card tricks to the list of forbidden delights.
My childhood was rooted in reality. Pure and simple. My imagination was fueled by the everyday stories of family life, of school troubles, and babysitting woes. Secrets were something you wrote in a locked diary and kept from your brother. They didn’t possess gardens or hide behind an enchanted door. Mystery was not the magnetic pull of a single, precious ring, but rather finding your favorite socks living in someone else’s dresser drawer.
And magic, well, magic was inconceivable. Unimaginable. Impossible.
I felt at home in the physical world–the thump of feet against hardwood floors, the smooth, cool surface of marble, the salt-tinged taste of tears on cheeks–but I knew there was more. I knew it because I heard rumors in the school yard. Unexplored books beckoned from the local library shelves, and when I spent time in the natural world, I felt the mystery pulsing beneath.
I knew there was more, but I didn’t know how to find the hidden door and enter. I have a friend who likes to say she lives in possibility, and I envy her for it. Her imagination and creativity for confronting every perceived barrier in the real world, reminds me that the magic of possibility we discover in stories as a child also exists in our own hearts. The secret chambers of our inner selves, the hidden spaces, echo with opportunity.
Anything can happen.
I can feel at home in both the physical world and in possibility.
This time of year when everything turns to gold and purple and grey, my mind turns to magic. To stories of the impossible, to creative minds spinning opportunity, to the hero’s journey, to a window into the world beyond my everyday.
Healing exists on this side of possibility. Good triumphs over evil. Mystery exists. Redemption is a song we sing. Time bends and stories come true. Hope is birthed.
