Presto-change-o! Laura Iseley returns to wave her wand over the LMP Season II finale, featuring Sarah!
Something I know to be true is that I feel most authentic when starry-eyed. However naïve, I’ve always been most inspired by the silly, the absurd, and the poetic, and collecting inspiration from these sources fills with me with an overpowering, enchanting love – a feeling I can only describe as magic.
I experience magic in a multitude of ways. I feel frisson when I listen to evocative music. I get tingles when entranced by another’s speech or work. I am often moved to tears when transfixed by my favorite movies and shows or when captivated by my favorite books. And in response to the world around me, my heart aches in a bittersweet way when I recognize something as having come full-circle or having completed a journey.
I’ve also been known to create my own magic. Sometimes I can spot an opportunity out in the distance and find a way to connect myself to it.1 Sometimes, I feel like I can wish something into existence. Much more often, though, I sprinkle my magic into storytelling. I cultivate my narrative magic through making films and now this podcast, and every chance I’ve gotten to tell stories through the somatic mediums of dance, winterguard, and theatre, I’ve been flooded with the magic of performance.
These deep, sensory experiences make me feel connected to the universe, and I long for these connections, however fleeting and ethereal.
Like most everyone, my first encounters with magic were in childhood. Glow stars, unicorns, and owls decorated my bedroom. One of my favorite shows was Dragon Tales on PBS Kids, one of my favorite movies, The Last Unicorn. In true 90s-kid form, I eventually boarded the Hogwarts Express to the Harry Potter fandom. As a middle schooler on the Internet, I was obsessed with this parody of David Blaine (and came to appreciate the real David Blaine as well). And to this day, Magical Mr. Mistoffelees’ number in (specifically the 1998 taping of) Cats never fails to warm my heart.
I’ve always loved Magic, but over the years, we’ve grown out of touch.
Out of desperation to be seen as “good” and “mature” by those with authority, I traded my imagination for integrity and my creativity for compliance. I funneled the energy put towards manifesting my abstract interests instead into reciting facts and memorizing standardized test-taking strategies. I whisked away my whimsy so its aloofness couldn’t be criticized. I dimmed my creative spark to accommodate the realities of my resources. Over time, I learned that, if I indulge my magical instincts, I should expect rejection, I should project shame, and I should shroud my character in return.
My starry-eyed disposition was discouraged, by myself, in response to hurt souls around me. And unfortunately, this discouragement is not uncommon.
But since I’ve decided to reclaim play, and to let Little Me decide how we get to navigate the world, I seem to have found again my magic.
I think I experience magic simply because I am open to it.
To me, magic is poetry. It’s connection. It’s serendipity. It’s whimsy. It’s choosing to see beauty for the sake of beauty, simply because I’d like to see it, simply because it feels special to let it in and to believe that it is there.
When I believe in magic, magical moments present themselves to me. And I know I’ve rekindled my belief because scores of magical moments have presented themselves to me over the course of LMP Season II.
To the surprise of no one, this season-of-Sarah was bookended and largely informed by Everything Everywhere All At Once. I’ve mentioned ad nauseam, that, though I had nothing to do with this movie, I feel like I made it because it resonates with me so deeply. But to experience this film on such a personal level and then to watch it receive the universal appreciation it absolutely deserves – including winning seven Academy Awards – was pure catharsis.
To similar cathartic effect, this season was also marked by the untimely death and the beautifully unexpected rebirth of the historic Tara Theatre in Atlanta. I didn’t realize how much this theater meant to me until it was first gone and then swiftly conjured again, like a rainbow ribbon out of a coffee mug2.
More magical, theatrical moments happened in the Big Apple. I got to see my first Broadway and off-Broadway shows this season, during which I rekindled my love for puppetry watching Audrey II feed in Little Shop of Horrors.
NYC didn’t leave the play to the theatre, though. On both trips, I met friends old and new and even got to introduce some of my friends to each other.
On my second trip to NYC, I even created a side quest to acquire a poem from a poet to whom I’d given half a delicious deli sandwich a month before.
What’s more, the NYC trips were beautiful blends of work and play. On the first trip, I accompanied Jaye on set, assuming the very important, completely self-assigned role of “ambiguous producer’s assistant,” and I was fortunate enough on the second trip for my ATL crew to help me figure out a remote workflow so that I could continue to work while off in my own world.
I worked hard this season – professionally, socially, emotionally, and in my various physical trainings – and this season marked the first stretch of time that I felt like my efforts, my abilities, my insights, and my growth were appreciated across my endeavors.
In work, I landed my first Union Assistant Editor gig through a company I’d wanted to work with for a long time.
In physical play, I grew stronger and more flexible; I rose two ranks in aikido; I learned how to belay; I learned hornpipe and was recognized for my improvements in Irish dance; I got my motorcycling license; I tumbled back into gymnastics; and I was aggressively encouraged and celebrated in parkour for every completed challenge.
In friendship, I felt the appreciation others have for me, across my endeavors.
And in the rest of life’s uncertainties, I found pennies all the way.
Even if all of these moments don’t count as magic in some sort of hardcore, quantum, metasphysical textbook, the wizards in charge can’t take away how deeply connected to the universe each of these experiences made me feel.
Please see infographic below:
A life without magic – or in denial of magic – might as well be death.
The separation of myself and magic is akin to the separation of children and their dæmons in His Dark Materials. It is soulless. It is numb. It is a complex and paradoxical sensation of bleak emptiness and crushing weight.
I am numb without magic. So, I am very grateful to chase my magic again and to welcome people – like Laura and my other guests, like all of you questing along with us, like my mentors and coaches and senseis, and like my friends, old and new – to help me catch it.
On a few unexpected occasions, I’ve been affectionately deemed a unicorn. This title gives me pause, both because it’s kind of an absurd thing to hear from someone, let alone multiple people, but also because being compared to the very embodiment of magic and scarcity is humbling and perplexing.
Of course, with great power comes great responsibility. So, if I am, in fact, a unicorn, then I don’t believe I am the last. And with whatever magic I possess, I will try my best to bring out the unicorns I believe exist inside us all.
It ain’t much, but it’s honest work. So, I’m happy to share a little of my light.
After all, I’m just a pinch of stardust trying to twinkle.
Thank you so, so much for a magical second season! We’ll be back sometime for Season III. Until then, be on the lookout for our courier owls carrying special Side Quests and surprise scrolls.
Tag along with Sarah on her ventures @sarah_final_v.1 on Instagram and @justmisssarah on TikTok.
And get crafty with Laura by climbing her LinkTree.
Referenced people and materials:
NYC poet j.d.b.
The Fall (2006)
Some Like it Hot (1959)
All music for the podcast lovingly created by Ian T. Jones.
Thanks for playing!
This happened with Harold and the Purple Crayon and has happened with other projects as well.
Or a classic rabbit from a hat. Whatever tickles your fancy.
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