A Soft Kind of Magic

This morning, I sat with my roses.

I've been collecting them lately. Dozens and dozens of flowers, in various stages of freshness and decay. Some still looked almost as lovely as the day I brought them home. Others had begun to wilt, their petals curling inward or drooping at the edges. Some were already drying, becoming papery and fragile.

I've been finding ways to preserve them, not because I want to keep them as they were, but because I don't believe their beauty disappears simply because they've begun to fade.

Today, I was peeling the petals away, one by one. And I found myself utterly captivated by them. Some petals had already lost their softness, but others were impossibly velvety. There was something so delightful about their texture. Delicate, but rich. Almost luxurious.

Every so often, I'd encounter one that felt particularly lovely, and I'd pause to graze it gently against my face. Across my lips, the tip of my nose, my eyelids. Such a simple little pleasure.

I found myself appreciating the colors, too. The subtle variations in the petals. Some roses had delicate swirls of color, others had shades that seemed to bleed into one another. Even within a single flower, the petals could look remarkably different.

I wasn't rushing through the task. I was genuinely enjoying the process of discovering what each flower had to offer.

The roses weren't all perfectly fresh, and that didn't seem to matter. Each had its own beauty, its own texture, its own little invitation to pay attention.

And with each petal, I repeated a prayer I've recently adopted: I call forth upon myself my powers of intuition and love.

Over and over again.

There was something wonderfully meditative about the combination. My hands were occupied with the roses, my attention drifting between their colors and textures, while the familiar words provided a gentle rhythm. I wasn't trying to accomplish anything particularly profound. I was simply enjoying myself.

Although, the prayer itself has a little history: Several weeks ago, I was swirling my tarot cards around, repeating those same words, when something rather extraordinary happened. I seemed to hypnotize myself (at least, that's the closest description I've found for it).

I slipped into this peculiar state of heightened awareness. My chest and throat grew warm, almost as though something had caught fire inside me. Not an uncomfortable heat, but something calm and strangely wonderful. And the words wouldn't stop... "I call forth upon myself my powers of intuition and love...."

They repeated in my mind for hours. What's particularly strange about that is that I don't ordinarily have an internal monologue. My thoughts don't typically arrive as spoken sentences in my head. Yet there I was, hearing this little prayer over and over again. And I remember feeling as though something inside me had unlocked.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't tried to recreate that experience. I've repeated the mantra. I've swirled the cards. I've tried to find my way back into that peculiar state of consciousness.

No luck.

But something else has happened. The words have become familiar. Comforting, even. The repetition gives my restless mind something to settle into. And I've begun finding opportunities to incorporate the prayer into other little rituals.

Like peeling rose petals.

I'm discovering that I don't necessarily need anything extraordinary to happen for the practice to feel worthwhile....although, apparently, sometimes a tarot card has other ideas.

After spending some time with my roses this morning, I reached for my deck. I didn't have a question. I wasn't seeking guidance or trying to divine the future. I just felt like playing with the cards, swirling them across the surface while continuing my little chant.

And then a card escaped. It slid off the table and landed on the floor, face up, perfectly oriented toward me.

The Ten of Water.

I had absolutely no idea what it meant. But the image was beautiful.

I sat there looking at it for a moment. Something about it felt airy to me, and I initially wondered if it belonged to the suit of Air. I was simply captivated by the artwork.

Then I picked it up and read its meaning: Universal love. Connection. Emotional fulfillment. Serenity. Harmony with oneself and the world.

Well, fuck.

There I was, surrounded by roses, repeating a prayer about calling forth my powers of intuition and love, and this beautiful little card had just thrown itself at my feet. I laughed at the absurdity of it. And the perfection.

Now, to be fair, I'd also taken a hit of weed that morning. I'm not going to pretend that didn't contribute to my exceptionally Zen disposition.

But I'm also not particularly interested in explaining the experience away. I don't know whether I believe the universe sends messages through tarot cards. The skeptic in me knows that cards fall off tables. The witch in me is perfectly happy to entertain the possibility that this one had something to say.

I've spent so much of my life being curious about consciousness, spirituality, and the peculiar things our minds and bodies are capable of experiencing. I'm fascinated by the places where science and mysticism seem to brush up against each other. But I don't need every mystery solved.

I'm beginning to appreciate that there's a difference between trying to create a particular experience and simply being receptive to whatever happens.

The first time I chanted that prayer, I felt as though something inside me had unlocked. It was extraordinary, and naturally, I wanted to experience it again.

This morning, nothing unlocked. There was no fire in my chest. No hours-long internal chanting. No remarkable shift in consciousness. I was simply peaceful.

And there had already been so much beauty before the card ever appeared. The softness of a petal against my lips. The colors swirling through a rose. The unexpected pleasure of finding something exquisitely delicate among flowers that were already beginning to fade.

I hadn't needed anything mystical to happen. I'd been completely absorbed in the ordinary magic of paying attention. And then something beautiful happened.

It wasn't anything that would convince another person of divine intervention. Just a small moment that felt exquisitely aligned with everything I was already experiencing.

Maybe the card was a message from the universe....or maybe it was just a coincidence. I'm perfectly content not knowing.

I think I'm learning to let these moments be enough. I don't need to dissect them until the magic disappears. I don't need to turn every spiritual experience into a declaration of faith or a lesson about the universe. And perhaps I don't need to keep chasing that first extraordinary moment, either. Sometimes I can simply sit with the mystery.

This morning, I sat with roses, whispered a prayer, and a beautiful card landed at my feet.

And I felt loved.

Not necessarily by anyone or anything in particular.

Just loved.