To be totally honest, I was going to wait to share another guest post. It seemed like a good ratio– based on absolutely no science whatsoever— was 3 of my-posts to 1 guest-post. Then, today came by, and I used up all my energy making tortillas and cookies, and doing the laundry. Restorative, yes, but not writing. So, please welcome another guest!

This post is by my in-real-life friend, Micah, who definitely understands the types of day that zap your energy twice as fast. He has a sometimes, though unnamed, presence on this blog. (I didn’t go try hundreds of popcorn flavors by myself, after all!)

Micah is a versatile and prolific poet and musician who has never written a blog before, but I think our writing styles have a hint of similarity and felt like it would settle in just fine. Send him some hearts!

(P.S. Micah offers writing coach services, helping with everything from finding a voice to completing a project. I get asked on occasion if I know of such things, and my brain goes completely blank, so consider this a recommendation. Even though you have to cold-email him to set it up. contact@micahbournes.com)

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The ER Doctor asked me how I dislocated my shoulder. I was embarrassed to admit that a vigorous sneeze shook my body to pieces. I’m grateful for the illusion of my frame.

Most people don’t mess with me because I appear so strong. I’m burdened by the illusion of my frame, I smile excessively to offset the fear of my existence. On top of being philosophically nonviolent, I am fragile beyond belief, underdiagnosed with overachieving symptoms.

I’m afraid I might go out like Houdini. I am strong only when I see a thing coming. I dig my heels in the earth and withstand 34 years of being Black in America, but let a pollen-filled breeze catch me off guard and I might end up in the emergency room.

The ER Doctor asked me what I do. “I’m an artist; a musician and a poet.” His professionalism disappeared in a cloud of smoke. He grinned and explained that being an MD was just his side hustle.

His day job is a magician, the doctor stuff keeps the lights on, but magic keeps his spirit alive. I wondered if his mother was appeased by the compromise. I wondered if his lover is embarrassed by his passion. I swapped out his lab coat for a tuxedo, envisioned him surrounded by toddlers at a birthday party, drunk lawyers at the annual holiday ball. What a dynamic set of skills, the joy and the healing all in the same slight of hand. I wanted to see something magical, but thought it might be greedy to ask. I hoped his stubborn childlikeness rubbed off on me as he put me back together. 

The best magician I ever met was not a magician at all. He was a man of faith who didn’t want to be mistaken for a witchdoctor.

“I’m an illusionist” he said, “I do believe in magic, and I stay far away from it. Everything I do can be explained, but where’s the fun in that?” In the end, knowing you’re being tricked only takes away the fear, not the awe. This man made a table float without the help of evil spirits, I’m even more impressed. 

People ask me how I do “it”. “It” being all the things that seem normal to me, easily explained, just lots of practice. But the awe is still thick on their faces. I’m not tricking anybody on purpose. I look how I look. I do what I do, I like what I like, and I stopped caring what my mother thought a long time ago. I’m an illusionist. I appear stronger than I am, but take no pride in it. I do believe in magic, I just can’t seem to track it down. I just can’t find my miraculous healing. I just don’t need it for this life to feel magical.

It’s not a trick. I’m not a trick. I heal things while being sick. I mend things while being broken.

“Blessed are those who believe and have not seen”. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m excited to find out one day.