2 minute read
From the Editor
Molly Backes, Communications Coordinator
In grad school, I got into a lot of arguments about magical realism. Or rather, I got into the same argument many times. Someone in my creative writing program would suggest that something seemingly fantastical in a work of magical realism—a ghost, the inexplicable scent of oranges, a very old man with enormous wings— should be interpreted as a metaphor for something else, and I would argue that they were wrong. In the magical realism genre of literature, magic isn’t a metaphor but rather a realistic depiction of the character’s actual experience in the world, and to read it through our Western, Euro-American, “science or bust” lens is to do it a disservice.
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My friend Ana told me that in her native Spanish, el realismo mágico is more accurately translated as “realistic magic.” This simple rephrase turned my entire understanding of the genre inside out. In the great works of magical realism, much of what Euro-Americans would consider fantastical, surreal, or magical are experienced by the characters—and handled by the author—as ordinary. The magic is realistic.
Take Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel One Hundred Years of Solitude, one of the masterpieces of the genre. In one scene, a woman walks into the garden to hang the laundry on the line and unexpectedly flies away. In another, a man who died in Singapore arrives in town to visit, and tells people that death was simply too lonely. A third character sees yellow butterflies whenever her lover walks into the room. All of these events are conveyed with a matter-of-fact tone that helps the reader understand that these moments aren’t metaphor: they’re real. Meanwhile, elements of the world that Westerners often take for granted—ice, magnets, trains—are treated as fantastic. What sets a room full of yellow butterflies apart from a chest full of ice in the tropics? Only point of view. On a hot day, an ice cube against your skin is the best kind of miracle.
It wasn’t until I found myself in regular arguments about what we should read as realistic versus fantastical that I realized I might have a higher tolerance for realistic magic than the average Euro-American. I credit my pagan UU upbringing (and, of course, my pagan slash UU parents). Growing up at FUS, I learned about nature-based religions and spiritualities, attended ceremonies and celebrations out at Circle Sanctuary, and discovered that some people think it’s perfectly normal to befriend trees. Our worship services were peppered with words from Thoreau and Emerson, Carson and Oliver, Leopold and Muir. In CRE, we sang songs and heard stories about the relationships people from other cultures had with the earth and its many citizens, and I internalized the idea that each of us is a part of the interdependent web of all existence.
Our world is filled with ordinary magic, if we are open to it. Einstein is often quoted as saying, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is,” and while he probably didn’t actually say it, it’s still a great line. As we enter into our month of wonder, let’s dwell in the possibility that even the most mundane moments might contain magic, and relish the commonplace miracles in our lives.
