Full of Magic Things
Moments before I was swindled by a beautiful elderly lady in a black lace shawl with gleaming dark eyes who claimed to be the sole caregiver of five children and their children, I purchased a poetry print for twelve euros. Drew and I, along with my cousin and his fiancée, were at a Saturday market in Galway last November and an entire market stall devoted to Irish poetry printed in black ink on small squares of jute fabric had caught my eye. Our traveling in Ireland had been a journey of re-enchantment—a slowing down of pace and a quiet opening of the spirit. My time-dulled senses were growing sharper. I was becoming more porous, more receptive to beauty and to the land itself and all the ways its ancient stone and wind-swept hills whispered something of eternity. When I saw the particular poem print that now hangs on my wall, I knew deep down that William Butler Yeats was telling the truth, even if I had forgotten it:
“The world is full of magic things,
Patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
I doubt I have ever made a happier purchase. With the poetry print rolled in protective wax paper nestled in my bag and a fresh happiness blooming in my heart, I wandered further into the chill morning light of the market. Perhaps it was the joy of finding a treasure that perfectly spoke to my spiritual experience of Ireland or a heightened awareness of people and place that accompanied my ever-sharpening senses, but I’m not quite sure what to blame for the not-so-magic thing that happened next.
A woman dressed in black and walking with the slow stiffness of age approached me, begging for food. Her deeply tanned face was criss-crossed with multiple wrinkles; her eyes were liquid supplication. She was lovely. Before Drew or my cousins could interject I was following her through the market to a fresh produce and seafood stand, having agreed to buy groceries for her children and their children. It started with the plums. “One for each child,” she said in limited English. I was happy to oblige. “What if this is Jesus—a ‘cup of cold water given in My name’ situation?” I wondered. “What if I am ‘entertaining angels unawares’? Here we are on this beautiful trip filled with good food and nice lodging; can’t I just be generous with her?” Having sensed my willingness to help, she deftly proceeded to select an abundance of fresh produce as I tried to calm the growing swell of anxiety rising within me.
As I sheepishly approached the checkout counter with a bundle of conflicting emotions and a good bit of perspiration, the shop owner looked at her, then at me with my very full basket. Shaking his head, he leaned forward and spoke in a low tone, “She comes here every week, luv. With a whole busload of ‘em—and they’re not poor. I’m just tired of her deceivin’ people. Why don’t you put most of that back, and just get a few things?” I sighed, knowing he was right. My wire basket had begun to take on quite a bit of weight as her delight in my generosity increased the fervor with which she placed more expensive jarred items in the basket—a far cry from the few pieces of fruit with which we had begun. Is it wrong to want plums for one’s children? I didn’t think so. We put almost everything back but the plums. I hoped they were for the five children and prayed for them, knowing they likely didn’t exist.
Messy as they may be, perhaps these, too, are magic things: deep purple plums in November, a kind produce shop owner who told me not to buy so much produce, the playful pout of my new friend’s lower lip when she realized she’d been found out. The clouds of our breath rising together to catch the cold morning light, shimmering for a moment before disappearing. The heavy feeling of putting jars of jam back on the display shelves while my cousins and Drew politely watched from the sidelines—no, more than that: the feeling of my being the last to know that this was a bad idea. I felt shame and disappointment, but for five minutes I had also known the inner warmth and glow of helping someone in need. No one else got to feel that but me, and maybe the beautiful elderly woman whose life was such that she needed to convince naïve foreigners to buy groceries for her, her children, and her children’s children. There is a reason she comes to the market every weekend “with a whole busload of ‘em,” and I didn’t need to know that reason to know that hers was not an ideal life. Rationally, I knew it was right to not allow myself to be taken advantage of but that didn’t mean I felt right about putting back 99% of my promised generosity. Messy things, these imperfect ingredients we use to compose a good enough life. We kept five plums, one for each child. Magic things, still.
When I consider this encounter, I cannot discern a clear hero or villain. As much as I want to paint myself as the hero who almost did something kind but was spared from being swindled just in time, I am not that. I am all too human, full of foibles and contradictions—often wanting to do the right thing but afraid of what it might cost. Was my willingness to buy groceries for someone in need enough? In the words of poet Mary Oliver, “Tell me, what else should I have done?” Better yet, what would Jesus have done? Something deep within me suspects that Jesus would have bought her groceries—all of them—considering both her need and her deception, yet choosing love anyways. He washed his friends’ feet, after all. . .knowing full well who would betray him, fall asleep on him, deny him, and desert him in his hour of need. I wish I had been brave enough to give beyond my desire to give. It is a messy business, this being human. But there is a grace that runs deeper. And Grace tells me this:
When we slow down enough for our spiritual senses to sharpen, we find that the messy things are also magic things—hiding in plain sight, just waiting for us to notice them.
Is it possible to be just as enchanted by cleaning up after dinner as I am by listening to birdsong on a forest walk? I don’t know, but I want to find out. There is both magic and mess inside of each of us, a complicated mixture of humanity and divinity. This week, for instance, I knew I was going to be writing again for the first time in a month. I haven’t showered in. . . a while and I felt messy and anxious—but hopeful too. As I began my writing ritual by making tea, I looked down at the tea box in my hand which I had chosen in the hot summer months solely for its name, “Mint Magic” (tell me, what else should I have done?). On the lid there is a wizard standing with a unicorn against a backdrop of majestic mountains and a star-laden sky. Flipping the box over, I found a quote printed in small letters that I hadn’t noticed before:
The world is full of magic things,
patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
—William Butler Yeats
I smiled, poured steaming water into my mug, and began to write.
Going deeper: Listen to “Has It Been You” by John Mark McMillan. I’ve shared it before, but it speaks to the complexities of our being human-made-for-eternity experience on earth.