Folklore and myth are full of lost children—abandoned due to curses, hidden away by fearful parents, exiled by evil kings and cruel stepmothers. Cast on the waters, left on hilltops, hidden in caves, their fate seems murky— until they reappear to either tragedy or triumph. Oedipus learns his true identity only to discover that he has fulfilled the dark prophecy that he was trying to outrun. But Perseus and Dionysos emerge victorious, avenging their rejection. Likewise, the youngest sons or rejected daughters of folktales overcome their outcast status and achieve treasure and acclaim.
Often we find ourselves speaking about wanting to embrace magic in our lives, about wanting to reconnect to that sense of joy and wonder that we remember having in childhood, about reclaiming that excitement and exuberance that is so evident in the very young. Often we speak in terms that indicate all these experiences are kept in some faraway place: in memories of times so long ago. And in some ways this is true, but it is also a place that is very much within reach.
Dark clouds snaked through the overcast sky like an airborne river, grumbling warning of impending deluge that summer afternoon in Orlando, Florida. I was a ten-year-old sorceress with blonde curls and a need for magical sand. My nine-year-old cousin and apprentice sorcerer collected the sand beneath the overhead bars as we discussed his infant sister, whom we knew was destined to be the most powerful sorceress of all.
The river in the sky grumbled louder, flashing a bit of lightning at us in warning. I leaned against the metal bars, raised an eyebrow. "Larak," I said, calling the thunder god by the name I'd given him, "You can just wait until we get home. When I'm standing under the carport, you can pour all you want then."
Anthony Gresham
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Anthony Gresham
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Jamie
Molly,Love the graphic.I kid you not. Many years ago, I was outside reading a book during a break at work. A crow feather fell out of the sky and land...
