THE MAGIC SHOES: 23) THE SPIRITUAL SUN
Monster Monday Madness
I gather I am not done yet, for my Magic Shoes are on the move again. This time they lead me toward Mark Sullivan & Son Antiques.
Inside, I wander past displays filled with figurines, busts and portrait miniatures; small boxes, snuffs and porcelain; telescopes and cameras, inkstands, flasks and other artifacts—all steeped in stories from periods past.
At the far end of this curio shop, sitting upon a polished counter, is an antique sterling silver hand mirror with a tortoise shell backside.
The Magic Shoes come to an abrupt halt, refusing to take a step further.
I’m guessing this is no ordinary mirror.
Compelled, I grab the handle. The mirror’s weight feels heavier than it looks, as though it carries something more than its physical mass. I lift it to my face, study my reflection. My eyes look tired—no surprise given all I’ve endured since traveling in my new shoes.
But now I can’t pull away from the image. Especially my eyes—as if the mirror’s surface is pulling at them with a gravity all its own.
The edges of the room begin to blur. Disoriented, I watch as the reflection of my face recedes. My highly-magnified eyes in the mirror lock into my own in a piercing stare.
The mirror has become something far greater. A doorway. A portal. But to where? To what?
A fragment of memory sitting at the edge of my consciousness surfaces—something instructive I once read about eye-gazing. Relax your jaw and the space between your eyebrows. Allow breathing to slow and take a few deep, deliberate breaths.
With each exhalation, my reflection seems to shift subtly as the mirror becomes a crossroads between the physical and metaphysical.
I focus on my pupils, left, right, left, right… switching every four seconds. These tiny black portals have always been there, albeit unnoticed and unremarkable—until now. As I continue to focus, they begin to pulse with subtle energy. An unshakeable pull draws me inward. This sensation intensifies until the edges of my face seem to melt away and I realize I’m not just looking at my eyes anymore. I’m looking through them—and into my brain, the intricate machinery that quietly governs my reality.
The experience is unsettling at first. Flashes of light and tiny sparks illuminate the synapses that fire in the dim silence of thought. But as I observe, a calmness begins to settle over me. I am inside my brain, watching the gears turn. I see the mechanisms that animate my every move, every idea and flicker of emotion.
And then I am drawn deeper.
Beyond the biology of my brain is the shifting landscape of my mind. Memory, imagination and emotion swirl together. Flashes of my past arise. Those moments I had forgotten, fragments of emotions I had buried. Joy, sorrow, awe, gratitude form a kaleidoscope of all I am and all I’ve ever been.
But the pull doesn’t stop there. I go deeper. Beyond the mind, beyond thought itself, I slip into a place where identity dissolves. There is no ego here, no sense of “I.”
There is only an awareness. And a presence that feels infinite. Time disappears. Space folds.
I am no longer separate from the world around me. I am the world, interconnected to everything. A reflection transformed to revelation.
The silver-and-tortoise- shell mirror is not just a relic but a portal to understanding the connectiveness of all things. When I finally detach myself from it, the air feels richer. Hues of color appear sharper, bolder. My awareness heightens. My gait has a lightness that was not there before.
“May I wrap that for you?” The shopkeeper stands behind the counter, eyeing me curiously.
For a moment I consider purchasing the mirror. “No, thank you,” I say. “I think my journey is complete.”
“Excuse me?” he asks, puzzled.
But maybe I have not completed my journey after all.
Because the Magic Shoes are already on the move again. They step me out the shop into Cecil Court then onto Charing Cross Road, alive with the bustle of mid-afternoon London, an aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.
Free, at last!
Or am I?
Northward my shoes take me, weaving through the city’s arteries and veins. I cross Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Left turn onto New Cavendish Street. At Regent Street they turn right.
I walk in reverence, understanding that the universe—through my Magic Shoes—is in control. Not me. And I’m wholly accepting of this.
They steer me into the winding pathways of Regent’s Park. The trees, their branches nearly bare, stretch toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The musky aroma of damp earth mingled with wood and spice fills the air. Sprawling lawns glisten from a light drizzle. A rugby game is underway in the distance. A solitary swan taken with its own reflection glides serenely along the boating lake.
Birds chirp intermittently. A dog’s bark occasionally pierces the calm. The shoes slow my pace. They urge me to notice every detail. The delicate dance of a robin flits across my path. A wooden bridge creaks beneath my feet.
I soon pass alongside London Zoo. The faint roar of a big cat reaches my ears. It merges with the eerie, unworldly call of a peacock.
After crossing Prince Albert Road, the shoes ascend Primrose Hill.
As the incline grows steeper, the air cools. I recall that this hill was built, in part, on the remains of those who succumbed centuries ago to Bubonic Plague.
At the summit, my shoes guide me to a bench. I sit to take in a panoramic view of London’s skyline—the Shard, St. Paul’s, the London Eye—all bathed in the soft golden light of a setting sun.
The Magic Shoes, now a little scuffed from countless steps, are content on my feet. They feel softer, worn in. And inanimate. Their mission has been fulfilled. My journey is complete.
As I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with fresh crisp air, my gaze lingers on the sun as it sits briefly on the horizon.
A plaque embedded into the ground nearby catches my eye. With my own free will, I rise and wander toward it.
Etched onto the plaque, these words:
“I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill”—William Blake.
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