How do you describe magic?
Not the explanation of how the trick works, the mechanics.
Not the explanation of the way the mind is tricked, the psychology.
No, how do you describe the magic of a weekend?
A weekend that, on paper, looks quite simple and lovely enough on its own: eat, write, run, write, eat, yoga, jump in a lake, write, eat, write.
How do you describe the visceral strength that arises out of the coming together of thirty women, thirty strangers, thirty souls? Women connected by the space they want to hold for themselves and in turn hold it for the others.
How do you describe the alchemy of words? Words written, words spoken, words hanging in the air thick enough for us to reach up and grab, pin them down on a page, only to then release into the world because no word deserves to be trapped.
How do you describe the power of movement? The power of legs and lungs burning over mountain trails. The power of water flowing and crashing as it tumbles along its course.
How do you describe the thickness of silence? The silence of meditation, of the hum just beneath the surface when, in that silence, something is being created.
How do you describe the energy of gratitude? Pure, genuine love for the moment and appreciation for what arises, even if there is discomfort or pain or sadness or anger in the process.
You sleep in. You walk the dogs. You meditate. You make your coffee and cut the fruit for your breakfast. You wonder why it’s taking you longer than usual to sit down and write, why it’s the only thing you can think about doing but just can’t seem to start doing.
And then you realize, it’s because this task you set out to do, the rumbling of words in your brain, all that you’ve learned the past four days about who you are and what your voice sounds like when it’s allowed to sing, all of the truth and the ghosts that you cried out, all the joy and the discomfort and the peace, none of this seems adequate to describe the magic.