Magic, Mystery, and Spells - Amira Or, 1998

Turmoil in the room – wet sand, a pool of glue, newspapers, hammer and nails.

Paint stains on the carpet and on my skirt.

I’m on the verge of exhaustion.

I don’t have any strength left.

Another day’s work is over.

Was there any “work” here?

I put on the mask of a burglar, a knight, an old woman… I fought with swords, I got a blue bruise on my fingernail, I hid under the desk, I painted a tree in fall with a silent girl.

I smiled, I was silent, I laughed

I drew, I photographed, I played,

I was bored, I was thoughtful, I was disappointed.

I sat on the rug,

I watched.

She made a box for little treasures

He built a trap for dinosaurs

She threw sand and checked to see whether I was mad

He insisted on taking his clay turtle home

They got mad when the sticky tape ran out.

His mom cried when she talked about the situation

Her father asked how long it would take

Their mother called the therapy an “afterschool activity”

They both thanked me warmly.

Why did I agree to let him take the blue turtle home?

Why didn’t I hold her when she threw the sand?

Why didn’t I stay silent when she was silent?

I know. I don’t know. Know – no.

For years I’ve been moving between knowledge and security and gnawing doubts and questions.

Like a butterfly hunter with a big net, I try to catch meanings.

How many years can I keep on being a witch, an old woman, a knight, and a burglar?

Do I know any more today?

Are my questions any different?

Has a body of knowledge been created here that I can rely on?

Do I have a credo?

Winnicott, Kohut, and Mitchell echo in my ears as I work, but I have to invent the code to the riddle every time anew.

And every time, again and again, the question surfaces: what was here apart from mystery, magic, and spells?

Amira Or amira.or11@gmail.com