š§ In That Magic Hour
A moment from my childhood, and a song that encapsulates the wonder of this time of day.
Dearest Beloved,
Iāve shared that Iām doing a deeper dive into my healing.
When you hear ādeeper diveā, especially as it relates to healing, I think a lot of us think of doing hard work thatās often painful and challenging. But itās not all like that. Sometimes a deeper dive takes you deeper into magic, into grace. Even if there are elements of pain in your story, because of the context of your life, it doesnāt mean thereās no beauty or wonder to be found there.
This is one such moment, that comes back to me the times I stop to savor a sunset or that magic hour right after. The song at the end of this post arose from these moments.
I am nine years old. The other kids have gone home for supper. I linger. Iām in no hurry to go back.
A low hanging sun pours liquid gold onto the playground, the swing set, seesaws, and roundabout merry-go-round. They stand still now letting the light sweep over them and onto the grass. Cascading over green, the grass becomes translucent, brilliant.
A single blade of grass, looking like the sun is emanating from it, draws me close to the ground and I lower myself in front of it. I peer into this blade as if it were a door, a portal to someplace not here.
I wonder what this place would be like. I am transfixed by the beauty I can only imagine from this side.
Magic is falling around me, I can feel it, and then night will come.
Time stops. Not like the way it stops when your breath catches in the back of your throat, when your heart beats too hard in your too small chest, or your eyes watch your door, or when you close them, and you know closed eyes donāt have locks. They keep no one out.
But pain does not reach me here, nor the weight of my room, or the shadow that visits my bed.
Everything is light, and golden, and beckoning here.
Beauty catches you by surprise, by the arm, and hoists you to a place where time stands still in anticipation, not fear. Beauty permeates, pierces the eye of the beholder, sears itself into the soul, kissing it gently, whispering the truth, stating with no guile that you are its child, claiming you as its own, no matter who you are, or what youāve done, or was done to you.
Even when you stare back, incredulous, the beauty captures you, and for a moment, you believe.
My father said, āYouāre beautifulā, often to me. He spoke these words in the day. He spoke them in the night. I didnāt believe him.
But his words were sugar water to my self-worth, empty calorie compliments, obese-ing whatever ego I had into inflation. To be attractive and pleasing to the eye became everythingāmy value, my worth, the reason for my existence.
In every mirror, in every passing window or reflective surface, I checked to see if I was still there, if I still existed. If I saw my reflection I did. I found relief but I found no beauty.
All I saw were a combination of line and symmetry, eyes that were neither Asian nor Caucasian, but exotic, skin that was smooth, and a body that was skinny, and small, and soft. Checked for quality.
An oriental rug covering the dirt swept under by my fatherās broom.
Better to identify with the rug than the dirt.
But beauty sought me out. I saw it in the sky and in the view when I sat in a tall tree. I heard her in the songs of hundreds of birds amongst the grove of trees I discovered when riding my bike. I felt it on my skin, the way the sun warmed my upturned face, and in the cool moving shadows of leaves that danced with the sudden breezes.
And now in this moment, the golden light seems to say, āThis is youā. I stare into the portal, this blade of grass, trying to see beyond it, as long as I could, until the light begins to fade, and I had to decide.
And faced with that, they cameāthe termites of unworthiness gnawing away at the foundation of me, and shame.
I canāt accept it, but I can steal it, this magic, this moment, this golden light, like a pick pocket, like a thief in the night.
I grab it as I stand, just in case, this piece of safety, this sense of belonging, this wonder and beauty, and tuck it away inside my shirt, so I donāt get caught with something that isnāt mine. I turn and go home.
But it was mine. I just didnāt know it then.
I know it now.
The Song: āSomething Moreā
Song by Demian Yumei; Music and arrangement by Stacey Young
āSomething Moreā Lyrics
In that magic hour when the sun bends low Kissing the horizon a touch of liquid gold Every tree a shimmer waiting for the night And the rising of the first star, still hidden out of sight Something more Deep within my heart I know thereās something more Deep into the night A call I canāt ignore Telling me thereās somethingā¦ There must be something moreā¦ Quiet sadness, change often feels that way Leaving what Iāve always known, take a chance to find my way Twilight falls around me, still Iām not alone and though I cannot always see, I know Iām going Home Something more Deep within my heart I know thereās something more Deep into the night A call I canāt ignore Telling me thereās somethingā¦ There must be something moreā¦ Is this all these is? I have so much more to giveā¦. Something more Deep within my heart I know thereās something more Deep into the night A call I canāt ignore Telling me thereās somethingā¦ There must be something moreā¦ Something moreā¦
From my heart to yours,
Demian Elaineā Yumei ~ Silent No More
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[Edited for a bit of grammar here and there]
Thanks for this uplifting piece. I especially liked how you examined the magic of the blade of grass and saw how it captured/contained the sun.
I am ASTOUNDED!! Your talents truly leaving me speechless. I felt as though I was standing next to 9 year old you, feeling the sun, the magic. And how too Iāve searched every window and mirror for myself. I laugh it off āIām so vain,ā but itās so much more than that š¤