Hippie magick is bound by the rising smoke of an old man. The empathetic approach of a child seeing another’s pain. A mother whose concern is greater for others than herself.
This is the way of a people bound not to any book, but to all stories. We gather around the fires lit by our family and dance. We run into the night, chasing our demons and devils with grins just as mad. Our embraces keep away the rain. Our food fills the bellies of babies in bites with glee and a smile to be had. The secret to a Hippies magick is their heart. They love. They fight with their life against the promise of a fictitious death.
They teach as they were taught, and tell the tales of the sun and the sea.
We begin by building the bonds of beauty found in laughter. They will hold our broken bones together when the worst may find us, restore us when the cold and damp have set into our soul. This power we have, is held in the sun and by all the stars. It is life guided away from the pointless struggle and towards intentional lesson.
Suffering. This can seem a unique word to describe a blessing. Yet, it’s ours. We have traveled and journeyed across the stars, the oceans, lands, and mountains. In every world and road traversed, suffering is present.
How can you walk with wear on the soles of your feet? How can you truly live without wearing that which wraps around the soul of you? It’s at the root of our way, the heart of our day, that we love to suffer. We honor every scratch, all the scars, and limps which our elders bury, our parents carry, and that we tarry to make. These are the physical marks of our travels. They are the signs that we may know our own in any form or facet.
A Hippies magick flows through the hands and heals by the same. It conquers sickness in song and confusion by meditation. The rites and rituals are never written, but passed on in the same light kept in the center of their fire. It seals the flavor in their meals as ice forever saves the times that are lost to the sun. The tales of dragons and or fairies, by Giants wrath and in path of a hero’s quest begin to fall from the mouths of minds long worn from the way of Man. Laughter and asses are raised to the degree of falling from their seats. The men rise and the women sing, when soon the dance has taken the scene.
Children talk and steal the last bits of mommas meal, all center bound and eyes wide, they watch. Men turn to stags, to snakes, to wolves and foxes while the fairer fall to the ground in feathers. Taking flight into the night they soar and sing. The beasts run in tow, howling and dancing the way the Only Earth.
The youth yell and shout. They turn their heads to the sky, to the moon and stars; without even a word they leap and fall into stars. Their light illuminates and captivates every soul seated within their play. They are the audience, the critics, and sponsors. We, the actors, phoneys, and fakes. We work as hard as we can to tell the story and make it sound. To convince even the stars to come down.
This is how we make hippie magick, how we tell our tale. How we fill our well.