I’ve always been fascinated by the word magic. For some people it carries mystery and delight; for others it brings up fear, fantasy, or childhood stories. It’s a word with history… and with baggage. And yet, underneath it all, magic is simply the experience of the unseen moving through our lives.
Years ago, when I was searching—aching, really—for something, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just knew my life wasn’t working, and something had to change in a big way.
One day I wandered into a metaphysical bookstore. I didn’t know much about metaphysics at all, but the owners welcomed me with such patience and kindness that I felt instantly at ease. I told them what was going on in my life, and they listened without judgment. That alone felt like magic.
They loaned me a book—one I read cover to cover. I loved almost everything about it. But one part gave me pause. At that time in my life, the word witch carried a lot of cultural baggage for me. It wasn’t that I believed witchcraft was bad or wrong; it just wasn’t a word I was personally comfortable with. And honestly, I had already put my parents through so much that coming home and saying, “Guess what? I’m becoming a witch!” didn’t feel like the next conversation we were all prepared to have.
I wasn’t rejecting anyone’s path. I was simply trying to find the spiritual language that resonated with my soul.
I asked the bookstore owners if there was something that carried the same sense of wisdom, connection, and sacredness—but in a vocabulary that fit my upbringing and my heart.
Two weeks later, I walked through the doors of my first Religious Science / Center for Spiritual Living community. And in that moment, something in me whispered, home.
That experience taught me something deeply important:
Words matter.
Language shapes our comfort, our perception, and often our willingness to stay open.
Language shapes our comfort, our perception, and often our willingness to stay open.
Back then, magic wasn’t a word I could claim.
Today… it absolutely is.
Today… it absolutely is.
Because Affirmative Prayer? It’s a kind of magic.
A shift in consciousness? Magic.
Healing that begins before anything changes on the outside? Magic.
Faith in something unseen yet felt down to our bones? That’s the most beautiful magic there is.
A shift in consciousness? Magic.
Healing that begins before anything changes on the outside? Magic.
Faith in something unseen yet felt down to our bones? That’s the most beautiful magic there is.
We live in a magical universe—one in which our thoughts, our intentions, and our willingness to be transformed all become the ingredients of creation. Not the stage-prop kind of magic. Not the sleight-of-hand kind. But the sacred, interior, soul-led kind.
The magic of alignment.
The magic of realization.
The magic of remembering who we truly are.
The magic of realization.
The magic of remembering who we truly are.
So when I say Making Magic, I’m talking about partnering with the Infinite.
I’m talking about the creative power within each of us.
I’m talking about the everyday miracles that unfold when we choose to say yes to Life.
I’m talking about the creative power within each of us.
I’m talking about the everyday miracles that unfold when we choose to say yes to Life.
That’s the magic I discovered.
The magic that reshaped my world.
And the magic that is available to all of us—right here, right now, with every word, every breath, and every prayer.
The magic that reshaped my world.
And the magic that is available to all of us—right here, right now, with every word, every breath, and every prayer.
Ernest Holmes writes:
“We can sit in the shade or move into the sunshine. Sitting in the shadow we may not really believe that there is any sunshine. But the sun would be there all the time and all the time we are in bondage the real freedom exists. It is there but we must awake to It.” ~Science of Mind, p. 411.3
This quote describes my life story—and I know it resonates with many who have walked their way into a new life. It doesn’t matter how we arrived at our awakening; what matters is that it brought us belonging, peace, and love. If your path led you there, then YES—celebrate it.
We tend to talk about “shadow” more in winter when the days grow short. And if you think about it, our literal shadow appears when the sun is brightest. It shows up because there is light.
Every one of us has a shadow—not because we are bad or broken, but because we are human. It’s the part we don’t usually want to reveal, because it doesn’t feel loving, kind, or joyful. And yet, in its true essence, the shadow is not negative at all. It is simply: unloved, unseen, unintegrated.
Yes, it holds the energies we label “dark”: shame, guilt, fear, unworthiness. And it also holds our disowned brilliance—our power, creativity, confidence, and boldness—wrapped in layers of protection.
My own path to the light—and to owning my shadow—came through Centers for Spiritual Living. I spent most of my early years, into adulthood, as a high-functioning drug addict and alcoholic. And on some level, I believed I deserved to be miserable.
When I walked into my first “church,” something shifted instantly. I felt a sense of belonging I had never experienced before. That community, that teaching, that atmosphere of unconditional acceptance—that was my path to redemption. And it became my path to sobriety.
Here’s the funny twist: my sobriety story is also part of my shadow. I didn’t go through a traditional recovery program—those programs are powerful and save millions of lives. My sobriety came through the teachings of Ernest Holmes. After 23 years clean and sober, people assume I walked a familiar path, and when I explain mine, some want to doubt its validity. And that’s what the shadow is: the parts of ourselves we resist owning—whether it’s our brilliance or our insecurities.
Stepping into the light doesn’t eliminate the shadow. It simply doesn’t allow it to drive the bus.
So, let me be honest: when I’m hungry, angry, lonely, or tired—my shadow grabs the wheel and aims for the ditch.
That’s when I pause, breathe, and ask:
“What are you trying to show me? What needs healing now?”
And then I gently return to the driver’s seat of my life.
Life is a journey.
We will all have “days.”
But those days do not get to define us—unless we hand them the keys.
The light is always there.
Freedom is always there.
Wholeness is always there.
Just like Holmes said:
“The sun would be there all the time… but we must awake to It.”
And every time we wake up—every time we re-claim our seat in the driver’s chair—we bring another piece of the shadow into the light and discover, again and again, that we are whole.
I know nothing about octopuses; although I just learned it is not octopi – who knew?
Another interesting fact is that I’ve been carrying around a horoscope I clipped from a newspaper. I don’t know how long I’ve had it—probably less than a year—but I’ve kept it tucked in my purse because it made me smile. It reads:
“Octopuses have three hearts, each with a different function. Every one of their eight limbs contains a mini-brain, giving them nine in total. Is there any doubt, then, that they are the patron creature for you Pisceans?…”
Now you can pooh-pooh astrology if you want; the point isn’t the horoscope but the feeling it sparked. Something about it delighted me. It woke up a tiny spark of wonder—like the soft tap of Spirit saying, See? There’s more magic here than you remember.
In Atlas of the Heart, Brené Brown reminds us, “Awe and wonder are essential to the human experience. Both awe-inspiring events and experiences that leave us filled with wonder often make us feel small compared to our expansive universe. Small, but connected to each other and to the largeness itself.”
Life is interesting. As children, we swim in awe and wonder like fish in water. Our whole lives are one big “Wow!” The world is enormous and surprising. But somewhere along the way—between deadlines, responsibilities, appointments, and trying to appear like we have it all together—many of us slowly lose that shimmer. We trade wonder for routine. We replace awe with efficiency. Yes, every now and then something startles us back into amazement, but mostly we function from a place of “been there, done that.”
It has taken me time, intention, and a gentle softening to find my way back to looking with the eyes of a child. Now I notice things that used to slide right past me.
I’ve been alive 26,936 days. That’s 26,936 sunrises and sunsets. Granted, I live in Washington where we don’t always see them—but they happen whether we notice or not. And I wonder: How many of them did I miss simply because I didn’t stop long enough to look?
I have a friend who goes outside on her patio every single morning specifically to greet the sunrise. She treats it like a sacred appointment. Something about that devotion inspires me.
These may seem like little things, but they are FREE gifts from the Divine. No subscription. No password. No membership required. Just grace—offered new every morning.
Now I pause to watch deer grazing in the yard, or a squirrel streak across the fence carrying… well, something important to him. I notice the miracle that’s woven into the ordinary. These gifts don’t care how old we are, what we believe, or what mistakes we’ve made. They simply ask us to pay attention.
And in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter how many Facebook friends we have? Or how well our favorite team is doing? Isn’t it far more nourishing to play shuffleboard bowling (yes, it’s a thing—I’ve witnessed it!) with the friends standing right in front of you? To wander through town in search of the best ice cream? To let yourself play again?
Because here’s what I’m learning:
When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up.
And now—after all these days, all these sunrises, all these missed and rediscovered moments—I’m learning to be a kid all over again.
To wonder.
To notice.
To laugh.
To be delighted for no reason at all.
To remember that the Divine hides in plain sight.
Maybe that’s the real wisdom of the octopus: nine brains, three hearts, and zero hesitation when it comes to exploring life’s mysteries.
If they can manage that, surely I can manage one more sunrise.
I'm hosting a Gratitude Circle tonight on Zoom. If you don't have plans please join us. Blessings Rev. Gayle
I had no idea what “kith” meant, so I figured I should start there—because I bet I’m not alone.
Lyanda Lynn Haupt, in Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit, writes:
“Where kin are relations of kind, kith is relationship based on knowledge of place—the close landscape, ‘one’s square mile,’ where each tree and neighbor and robin and fox and stone is known, not by map or guide but by heart. Kith is intimacy with a place, its landmarks, its fragrance, the habits of its wildlings. Kithship enlivens kinship.” ~pp. 25–26 (Kindle Edition)
It’s a fascinating concept, especially now that my life is lived between two “kiths.” I spend 10–12 days each month in the Wood River Valley of Idaho—what many people know simply as Sun Valley—and the rest of my time in my new home of Bellingham, Washington. Both are stunningly beautiful, and both offer something very different to the heart.
My Kith of Bellingham
If you’ve never been to Washington—or Bellingham, for that matter—let me share a bit of the landscape that lives inside me. Bellingham sits at sea level and yes, Western Washington earns its reputation for rain. That rain is why everything is so green, so lush, so alive. Because we are further north (only 21 miles from the Canadian border!), winter brings more snow and crisp air.
We are a land of water—lakes, rivers, streams—and the city itself opens into Bellingham Bay at the northern edge of Puget Sound. Washington has five major volcanoes, and I have always lived near one. Right now, I’m only 27 miles from Mt. Baker.
My neighborhood has deer, squirrels, and occasionally a black bear who wanders through like he owns the place. (And honestly, he probably thinks he does.)
My Kith of the Wood River Valley
My kith in the Valley is new; my first visit was in May—and yes, it snowed that weekend. The average altitude is about 5,500 feet, depending on where you stand. The Valley is made up of four towns—Bellevue, Hailey, Ketchum, and Sun Valley—each with its own charm.
I love the Aspen trees. In fall they turn brilliant reds and yellows, and when the wind moves through them, they “quack.” It’s a sound that goes straight to the soul.
And the elk—oh my goodness, the elk. Herds of them. They sit at the roadside during evening traffic, waiting patiently for cars to thin so they can cross to where they sleep for the night. The speed limit is lowered at dusk—nobody wants to meet an elk at 55 mph.
I’ve become quite enchanted with the Magpies, too. Maybe that would change if I lived there full-time, but for now they feel magical and beautiful.
And then there is Light on the Mountains. The first time I saw it, I literally stopped the car. It takes your breath away.
Kith, Kin, and Science of Mind
So what does any of this have to do with the teachings of Science of Mind?
In our Declaration of Principles, Ernest Holmes writes:
“We believe in God, the Living Spirit Almighty; one, indestructible, absolute, and self-existent Cause. This One manifests Itself in and through all creation, but is not absorbed by Its creation.
The manifest universe is the body of God; it is the logical and necessary outcome of the infinite self-knowingness of God.”
I look at my life in two sections: before discovering the Science of Mind teachings and after. One of the greatest differences is my awareness—my connection to my “kith,” the place where I stand in the moment, and my connection to my “kin,” which for me is all humanity.
It is important to remember we are all connected energetically. I’m not always fond of that idea—and yet I know it’s true, because I believe “the manifest universe is the body of God.” Which means everything—every tree, every human, every elk, every raindrop—is Divine Intelligence expressing Itself in form.
And because of that truth, it matters what I think, how I feel, what I say, how I react. We are not isolated little islands; we are dominos in a vast field of consciousness.
So I’ll leave you with these questions:
What are your predominant thoughts today?
Are you noticing the beauty of the place you inhabit—your own kith?
Or are you complaining about the weather?
Are you offering grace to the people you encounter?
Or are you judging their appearance or behavior?
We are responsible for the reality we create. I may not always notice the beauty or feel the connection, and yet every single day, I am doing my best. And that’s all any of us can do—show up awake, aware, and willing to be part of the great weaving of kith, kin, and the Divine expressing as each of us.
