“What beliefs of yours are running your show?” ~ Somebody smarter than me
He snuck up behind me, his footsteps muffled by his baby blue crocks.
“What makes them magic wands?” He asked in an accusatory-tone more suited for a courtroom. Startled not only by his stealthy approach but also by the question, which oddly enough had, up until that moment gone unasked, I was unsure of how to begin. I mean, much like the punchline of a joke, if you have to explain it—the funny or the magic in this case, is lost.
“I suppose it’s the belief that they are that makes them so,” I replied, arranging the brightly painted pink and red wands of magic in the bucket.
He mumbled a few more pearls-of-jackassery like, “you’re crazy,” and “there’s no such thing,” as he shuffled away.
“Just so you know, dude, I’ve been called gullible, woo-woo, or a Pollyanna my entire life so you’re coming at me with a dull knife when you call me crazy. And for someone like me who’s spent most of their adult life believing in the unseen, things like magic wands require no explanation. They just are. Besides, folks who wear crocks outside of a hospital, restaurant kitchen, or garden have lost their right to judge others—I don’t make the rules!”
THAT was my imaginary response. In reality I said nothing.
So that happened three years ago when the bucket of wands was a summer staple in our front yard.
Kids and their parents would come from far and wide to take home those spiky little reminders of magic in the world. And because magic pays dividends, they left sweet cards and homemade thank you notes scribbled in crayon and all was right with the world, that is, until some soulless, shell-of-a-human-being took umbrage and stole the entire bucket of wands—not just once—but three times!
I tried like hell to remain not bitter but I failed. For three years, I refused to wand-up the hood.
Fuck it! I thought. Besides, all the kids are grown (they weren’t), all the magic is gone (it wasn’t) and anyway, I’m too busy for this shit (straight-up lie). But y’all, by the time the unreasonable facsimile for summer 2020 rolled around, I decided that if any year needed a bucket of fucking magic wands, it was this one! Only this time I went old school, leaving them in their natural state because I was out of paint and I think it was Jesus who once said,
“Wands are magic, no matter what color they are… Amen.”
Cut to: a couple of days ago, while I was in the front yard cutting the last few remaining stalks, a lovely, middle-aged woman tapped me on the shoulder interrupting the podcast about love, (yet another unseen force I fully subscribe to) that was playing in my ear. “I love that you’re doing the wands again!” she said, “I still have mine from a few years back!”
“You do?” I was truly impressed. Many others who’ve been gifted wands from me, told me that they eventually wither and die—albeit a very magical death. I’ve been told that if you mulch them the dust grows a unicorn. Again, I don’t make the rules.
“What do you call these flowers?” she asked.
“Agapanthus,” I replied.
“And is this the color they turn when they die?” She was twirling a green one in-between two fingers, admiring it like a fine glass of wine.
“Uh, well, they start off with blue flowers on the end and when those fall off I cut them and make them a wand…and then they die,” I answered.
“Well I have to tell you,” she moved closer to me so I could hear her whisper through her mask, “I don’t know if you believe in this kind of stuff, but I’ve experienced a miracle with my wands.”
I tilted my head to the side, not sure if I’d heard her correctly. Don’t believe this kind of stuff? Lady, I fill a bucket with dead agapanthus stalks and label them magic wands, I think that puts my freak flag about as high up the pole as it gets.
“Tell me more!” I said aloud.
“So, I have two of your magic wands and I’ve kept them alive for three years in a vase of water. The color hasn’t faded a bit which I’ve come to believe is a miracle, don’t you agree?”
I nodded. OMG. Was she for real?
“I’ve been so impressed by the fact that they’re still alive that I even took the purple one to Cedar’s when my mom was getting her chemotherapy. She improved so dramatically that everyone, even all of the nurses and doctors, were convinced it was the magic wand!”
Is she serious, she really thinks the purple and red are the natural colors? Colors like that are found in spray cans, not nature! How do I tell the crazy lady that it’s PAINT. Not a miracle. PAINT!
Holy Tin Foil Hat, what a nut!
“Anyway, I love that I got to meet you and thank you personally,” she chirped. And with that, the mother ship shot down a beam of light and transported her back to…wait, would you just look at me—I thought she was a kook because she believed in miracles! Nevertheless, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
I can’t be sure, but it appeared her belief in the extraordinary eclipsed even my own—and I’d turned into the crocks guy!
Carry on,
xox JB
