Andrea Black was born with a gift. She deciphered the world in a secret language of imagination. This language allowed her to ask the question, what are the possiblities of the unseen? The stars alligned cradling her truth, the universe stamping her with a purpose: to spread this magic around the world into people’s lives.
Life guided her, imprinting ancient teachings onto her soul. As she ran playing in the forests of the great south, branches of pine and gentle oaks breathing against her back, the world reminded her she is not alone. She pretended she was in China. Peacocks roaming where chickens should in the rolling hills of North Carolina, blue and regal, their mighty feathers outstretched teaching her the world’s majestic wonder, that anything, in fact, is possible. Caterpillars nestled themselves in cocoons of silver transforming into fragile winged birds of sunlight and blue skies as she rode down the neighborhood streets, her friends laughter ringing in her ears. Everyday was a signal, a beacon of wonder in this life-hot air balloons floating in the sky in mighty puffs of color, twinkiling fireflies scattering through the night illuminating her way home. She held hands with this life of magic, never questioning if it would go away, until one day it did. She was made to bid goodbye to the friends of her mind. The sun baked days, the wind at her back, the laughter of pretend worlds fading away. She was split in two, made to chose the “adult” world, and in that moment the magic disappeared.
She did what was expected, or what she thought was expected: corporate job, 401 k, salary, managment, money, money, money…her soul fought, depression sank in and she responded by numbing her mind with folly, tempering the whispers of her calling. Her life moved from one ungratifying moment to the next, the hole growing larger until she met the man, her future husband, who reminded her of the magic she held.
“Tell me a story.” he whispered, the bars of the futon digging into their backs, his fingers intertwined in hers. She was surprised by the request. Her eyes searched the room looking for any motivation, and then she saw it. Along the walls, the paint cracking with age, a line of ants marched in droves from the windowsill to the ground.
She smiled, her brain sparking with that magic she once had. She breathed the stories of tiny soldiers parachouting from helicopters flying into the heat of combat, the enemy down below as the captain barked orders to his airborne troops, “HUT TWO THREE FOUR, HUT TWO THREE FOUR…” as the ants marched along.
He laughed, amazed by the world she saw. That day a crack opened inside of her, whispers of the land she lost flooded her heart again. She picked up a pen, closed her eyes letting the universe hold her in its gentle sway. The words flowed from pen to paper, the question arising again. What could the world be? She wrote feveriously, creating worlds of splendor, with the belief if she got it all out everything would transform opening to something better. This feeling has stayed with her, and as the words filter through her mind, she made a promise to never let the magic go.
Why do you write? What got you to where there was nothing else but the pen? How do you see the world? I would love to hear from you. You are not alone. Let’s chat 😀