One of my few freedoms as a child was the freedom to wander the woods and fields close to my parents’ house. Directly across the street from our front yard was land planted with timber pines. A path ran through the young trees, traversing the orderly rows of evergreen until they reached a gentle slope of land clothed in wild vegetation and deciduous trees. I walked this path often as a child, taking side trails and sometimes wandering into inviting spaces off the more well worn ways.

One summer day I let my mind wander as freely as my feet, not really paying attention to where I was going, until I looked up and realized I was in a completely unfamiliar place.

Surrounded by tall, yellowed grass, I looked in every direction without spotting anything familiar. A continual breeze tossed the grass to and fro. The ground in many areas was slightly spongy, as if saturated with water. And over it all, huge bumblebees buzzed contentedly, flying about in a leisurely manner. 

I was frightened. I was fascinated. I wandered the tall grass, hoping not to stumble into a devouring bog. I felt someone, or something, watching me. At the same time, I felt the shiver in my stomach and limbs that always told me magic was near, or in this case, all around me. It seemed to be hours before I stumbled back onto a familiar path and made my way home. But my mother didn’t seem to think I’d been gone any longer than usual, so I didn’t tell anyone about my strange afternoon.

I was both relieved and disappointed to have found my way back to an unchanged reality. Maybe being lost had frightened me, but at the same time, the eerie beauty of that mysterious moment elated me. 

I never found that surreal place again. 

When I hear the phrase “wild magic,” I always think of that summer afternoon. But even here in my suburban neighborhood, there are pockets of wild magic defying the linear order of streets and fences. Wild magic persists in spite of our culture’s efforts to solve every mystery and straighten every crooked thing. Little mysteries linger in out of the way places, gather in corners like dust bunnies, tangle in the roots and branches of ornamental trees. Magic won’t be stamped out.

I believe it’s like that with us humans as well. I think that somewhere in each of us – or at least, MOST of us – there are pockets of untamed mystery resisting our efforts to be normal, whatever that is. Some of us court this wild magic, and some of us resist it, but it’s there whether or not we see it. Whether or not we even believe in it. 

The arts are one of this wild magic’s best outlets. Whether your art form is disciplined or ecstatic, whether your process is meticulous or chaotic, magic can find a way into the work, usually in ways we’d never expect and certainly never be able to plan. And this might be my favorite thing about creating.

Questions to ponder:

Have you ever had an experience you would describe as magical? One you couldn’t explain? How did it affect you?

Have you ever created something that came out so differently from what you intended that it seemed to have a life of its own?

Do you have any rituals or practices to invite wild magic into your creative process? 

Photo by yours truly.

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