CROWNED.

Life isn’t always magic.

In fact, more often than not it seems the opposite of magic_gaps of time without fairy dust, crowns or gowns. It’s a little more like moments of stained, ashy garments, burnt cookies, and a fair share of “I’m sorrys.” When I was a young mother, while I experienced the magic of holding my sons in my arms & the resultant, intense love, I spent the next several years up to my elbows in spit up, throw-up, and a bunch of other stuff, aka, literal crap. Let me tell you, it did not feel magical. Diapers smelled rotten. I got peed on without warning. Their bowels exploded out of onesies. Things went sideways and sometimes I cried. Sometimes I cried a lot. There were times I held back tears in grocery store lines or got frustrated and raised my voice when I didn’t want to raise my voice. The so called fairy-dust magic looked more like those ash-stained garments full of apologies, tears, and often prayers.

It’s been a lot of work. It is still a lot of work. I have teenagers now, but the tears continue to ebb & flow. At times they are tears of nostalgia, almost like a soft grieving. Other times, it’s the feeling of being overwhelmed by ambiguity & uncertainty. Ultimately those times of not knowing how it will all work out regularly drive me to my knees_to an altar of acknowledgement, surrender and trust. This is when I often wander outside with my camera in hand in search for that altar. When my eye catches a glimpse of light, when it grabs my attention, I go there. I lay my body down. I quiet the noise. I get still.

I feel the wind. I breathe the air. I touch a tree, hold petals in my hands_not quite like the ones in this picture, which I simply observe. Then I close my eyes to “see, see.” A tear rolls down my cheek. It’s a prayer. It’s an ache. “God, this all feels so big, I need to know something bigger.” Not just outside of me but inside of me. That’s where I found myself last week, in front of a dandelion poppy at Golden-hour. I could see the light tracing the top of this magical-looking tree. I knew I had found my “right now” altar. In the heaviness of a worldwide pandemic, I needed to see, to feel God, to taste some kind of tangible glory. As I sat in the grass and opened my eyes, the sun’s rays lit every dandelion seed as if it were a glorious crown filled with rainbow diamonds. When I looked into this colorful, refracted light, a familiar line of a song popped up, “When you wish upon a star.” Now this felt like real magic. Only the wish was a seed and a seed was a prayer.

If you are like me, since I was a little girl the dandelion represented childlike wonder. They’ve always been full of wishes and dreams, or better yet freedom’s seeds_ready to fly. They never fail to wait on shifting winds_winds which blow them sideways from stationary place to one of exponential growth. Billowing winds stir a change. Notice again, it’s these sideways movements, the messy strokes of life, that make the space for magic to come forth. One seed of hope, one wish, one prayer, one tear is lifted in holy gust until it lands in soil where it can grow (again).

The reality is the miracles we often see in this life rise from the mundane and aching things_if we let them. In this way, my personal pain has been the seed bed of teachable moments. My physical sicknesses have laid the foundation for my children to learn what it’s like to grow through the rough & hard places. These things have taught me resiliency and by default it teaches them resiliency, too. Our messiness, the inevitability of things dying, the drudgery of the mundane, opens the door for this deeply necessary treasure and jewel. It’s an invitation to say “yes” to life in all of its colors and seasons. When we say yes to life, we say yes to promise. There is something on the other side of what we call Dark Night. It’s a dream fulfilled. A longing satisfied. Suffering and anguish don’t have to be a forever prison. They can be seeds that help carry us to the promise. 

There’s one more thing I’d like to share. It’s a tale about “Promise Beyond the Dark Night.” It’s a story unfolding from one wish, one sacred request. It’s a classic version of a beloved fairytale from the Brothers’ Grimm. They show us thumbnails into the life of an imprisoned young lady seeking solace and freedom. No, it’s not Snow White, The Little Mermaid, or Tangled, aka, our generation’s rendition of Rumpelstiltskin. It’s the story of Cinderella. In case it’s been awhile, let me refresh our memory.

As a child Cinderella loses her mother. Eventually her father marries a disdainful woman with two daughters who betray her rightful place of belonging by casting her out as a maid to live among the ash heap. One day her father makes a trip to the fair and asks these young ladies what they desire for him to bring back for them. While the sisters ask for extravagant things, Cinderella requests but one earthy, wild branch from a tree so she can plant it on her mother’s grave. When she receives the branch she does just that and makes her way to her mother’s grave_her place of deep loss. From there, the story weaves these words:

And she wept so much that her tears fell upon it and watered it. It grew and became a beautiful tree. 

You see, this magical tree born of anguish became her altar. It became the place where Cinderella would go to release her tears as an offering, an offering which would eventually crown her head as queen. And I love this scene that the Grimm brothers painted:

…and beneath (this magical tree) she wept and prayed.” 

Then something even more miraculous happens. In this holy place of anguish, where she poured out her soul, not shoving her tears down, a white dove appeared. It came to hear her wishes and prayers. From this sacred altar, after hearing her cries, the bird rained down precious jewels fulfilling her deepest longings. You see, her anguish became her crown. Beauty was birthed from ashes. But the story gets better. When she was rejected by her stepmother & sisters, as they verbally beat her down declaring she is not fit for royalty, the sacred dove, through this furnace of pain, furnishes silver and gold, heavenly treasures, in the form of a dress.

Maybe she never wished for a prince. Maybe she never wished for a dress. However, we know she longed to taste her mother’s comfort again. We know the seeds of her tears yearned to know her mother was near_to provide, in the place of her ashes an altar, a church. She wanted to feel the nurture in the arms of a branch. She longed to hear her whisper, to know her voice saying, “This is your place of belonging.”

Somehow I believe she touched her mother’s heart. Somehow, in the tasting of her tears, the salt of the branch touched her deeply. Maybe the healing is not in the way social constructs of old or plastic religion has promised, but maybe it’s in the earthy promise of soil prepared by stormy, anguished tears in which longing is fulfilled. This fertile soil transforms the pain by means of a dove, a holy spirit & wind, who takes sorrow and makes royal jewels. These places of loss become the crown on your head. The loss of a mother, a career, one’s health and other past dreams poured out on the altar put us in a place to overcome. Like Cinderella, when we bleed our tears at the altar, many altars even, our dreams have the ability to come true. Our tears are treasures in our crowns_so we cry in showers and we cry in parking lots. We let go of the masking tape. We quit trying to cover up the cracks. We stop holding it in. We cease pushing our baptism down because there is no transformation in denial_only more suffering. 

All of this leaves us with the question, What exactly manifested this place, this altar of promise, for Cinderella? Was it something outside of her like a prince or rescuer? No, it was something inside, an inner reality. She knew whose daughter she was_her Mother’s daughter, and her Father’s, too. The white dove was a manifestation of her mother’s prayer. It was an expression of God’s heart, the magical place inside of her. It was the release of tears and hallowed prayers. These things led her out of her prison. They dressed her. They crowned her. They gave her the power to say yes to life after loss. They furnished her with glory and grace. 

So yes, Life isn’t always Magic, but it makes room for Transformation. Pain is the soil that makes room for redemption. It makes way for moments & seasons where Heaven kisses earth. It’s a place that would not have been if not for trial or troubles. It’s the Resiliency Place. The Royal Palace. It is here we weep with those who weep, but it is here we also take each others’ hands and laugh. There is nothing like a laugh after a good cry. Am I right? In the end, Cinderella becomes a queen and a mother from the place of being a rejected maid and a forsaken daughter. 

Friends, let your pain become your furnace. Let your ashes fill the altar. Let your tears, the seeds of your suffering, become your diamonds. And let your diamonds become your crown. It’s an invitation not an imperative. It’s definitely not a command. One more thing. Please don’t let anyone steal your altar. Don’t let someone “step-mother” you. A true mother is a mother. There’s no stepping on hearts here. The step-mother archetype in fairytales is one of facades and two-faced masks. She’s not the real thing. She’ll sell you a lie and you’ll end up losing yourself JUST like her two daughters

Be you. There’s an altar and a promise on the inside of you. 

P.S. I did not take time to write about the lost step sisters, but let me insert a noteworthy happening. Near the end of the story we learn the Step-sisters learn to “swallow the pain” in order fit their feet into a shoe that did not fit. In the tale they cut parts of their feet off (altering themselves) to try to “fit in” & manufacture this sense of belonging to the Prince. Basically, they did not take their tears to the altar. They betrayed themselves. They lost themselves. They actually lose their very lives. I realize there is more to write about the sisters, but this is the main takeaway: We no longer have to “swallow the pain” so we can fit in. More profoundly, we know we belong when we don’t have to cut parts of ourselves off to take our seat in the carriage. True belonging is our inner Prince. It always carries us to the next destination…

P.P.S. Please don’t hate me, but I like this version more than the Disney version. But you can hate me b/c I’m not going to “step-mother” you and tell you what to do. Let’s commit to stay true together.