Sandra Bullock: My Continuing Inspiration

On a radical whim that only hits me about every six months, give or take, I cleaned my room. I went absolutely crazy. You see, I've never been the type to take on a project and let it lie for the next day. I have to keep going, I have to get as much of it done as humanly possible. In the space of three hours, I filled two thirty-five gallon garbage cans. I filled half of the recycling can. I filled a whole black garbage bag full of Goodwill donations, and then some. I even used the Eiffel Tower bookends my aunt gave me years ago. All I have to do now is file my geology and biology notes in my roller desk (my pride and joy - thanks for that one, Da!) and I shall be done.

While I was rummaging around my desk, I came across a poem I wrote after a bad break-up. If you've ever seen the movie, Practical Magic, you know that when Sally watches her aunts cast a spell for a lovelorn woman, she despairs over the raw power lust can have over the human soul. So, to protect herself from such destruction, she casts a spell so that only one man can ever truly grant her true love: one who has one blue eye and one green eye, who can ride a horse backwards, and other attributes she finds to be totally impossible to find in men. That way, since the man is so impossible, he can never come to be real, and thus she will never have to know the pain of love. Of course, if you've seen this movie, you know how well that works.

However, I was in despair as well. And I had begun to dabble in Wicca myself, without any hope of ever being able to truly perform magic. So, last June, I arranged a few items of magick outside on a blanket, under the summer solstice sun, and I did what I do best. I wrote.

My Practical Magic

I wake up every morning, and there's a space where my eyes light.

Where I sleep on my bed, he leaves one half empty.

That's where he used to lie, and my arms were full.

Once, I used to sleep in the center, warm and guarded,

with distance between me and the edge - I had no fear of falling.

He changed me, and now I cannot see anything but the cliff: nowhere safe.

Though I dare much, and though my heart aches from the solitary weight of ice,

I fear love - I fear the void that left me broken.

An Owens girl once made a pledge, wove a spell, and so do I,

daunted as I am, weave a wish, with rose petals and strands of lavender,

plaited in golden straw for luck, and strewn amongst the rocks for the sparrows

to spread like seeds of wisdom in the wind.

My true love is this:

     he will be remarkably compassionate - caring for God's creatures

     (St. Francis's envy if ever there was one)

     full of steady patience, let him wait in the long grass for my timid heart to come to him.

     his eyes will glitter with vibrant life: sunlight against the brilliant Big Sky,

     and he will know my heart's desire, though I shall never utter a word of it.

     He will carry a lark's tune in his whistle

     as I more quietly carry love in my heart.

     More than anything, he will have an unbridled affection and doubtless respect

     for all things free - including me.

Until such a man should show himself, I wish never to fall in love.

Because, if I do, I am destined for heartbreak.

And so I shall be waiting, my love, for thee, always for thee.