I believed in fairytales. After all, I was raised on them in Disney technicolor. Cinderella and Snow White, were my favorites. I loved the idea that love conquered all, goodness and truth always won in the end. I loved in unicorns and magic, believed in crystals and psychic connections that transcend time and space, transcended eternity. I believed in the goodness of people and that that belief would always bring out the best in them. I believed my own life was a fairytale. Grant you there were difficult times, but my outlook was always governed by the fact that I had found my true love, my soul mate, the one and that together, everything would be alright. I believed!!
Funny what belief can do. If you believe, it is real, at least, in your own mind. Unfortunately, there is the rest of the world, or at least other people, and sometimes they don't always see it way you do. As it turned out, I was Sleeping Beauty. But instead of a prince's gentle kiss, I was awakened by my fairytale crashing in on me. I woke alone to a devastated landscape of lies and deception, impaled by my hopes and dreams. My world wasn't what I had believed it to be. It was an illusion.
I no longer believe in fairytales. They are simply fantasy, a superficial matrix of illusions keeping us from facing our own Truth; hiding our way forward. As a child, I often sought refuge in such stories, at first as a way to deal with my loneliness and isolation, then as a way of dealing with the painful reality of my parent's breakup. They gave me something to believe in, to hope for, a possibility more hopeful than the one in which I actually lived. If I believed, truly believed, things would be different, all would be well. But in the end, after all, we are only human. There are no knights in shining armor.
I mourn the loss of innocence, and yet, although I often find myself guarded and jaded, deep inside a kernel of what was still exists longing to believe. As I struggle to pick up the pieces, I am learning to live again, this time for real. It is a time for Lifetales in all their richness and depth, substance, and uncertainty. In the end, the world is what it is and perhaps therein lies the magic; the magic in actually living, enjoying the company of friends who are actually there, people who love and accept you, enjoying the cool sweetness of a beautiful garden at sunrise, the goofy laughter of a bunch of kids, seeing your son become a man. It's the magic, not in unicorns and love ever-after, but the simple joys of life. It may not be perfect, but it is real.