Magic Carpet Ride | Safe In Spirit - Episode 14

In this episode, Lulu reflects on how the imaginative wisdom we use as children to navigate difficult moments can become powerful spiritual tools as adults.

Through storytelling, gentle humor, and reflection, she invites listeners to consider their own “magic carpets” — the places, practices, or inner awareness that help them rise above the storms of life.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:29

Welcome to Light in the Garden, a soft place to land, breathe, and remember who you truly are. I'm Lulu, and this podcast is my offering. Here we explore the quiet places where the human and the divine meet, through stories from the road, the lake where I spend many hours, and the long path of my own becoming. Each episode is simply a companion for your heart. This is light in the garden, and I am so very glad you are here. I'm curious, my fellow garden walkers, did you have a particular escape doorway when you were young? Many children either through imagination or literally create a threshold to go somewhere, either to an imaginary family or to a fantastical place where those tyrant parents simply cannot go. Mine was a magic carpet. Now not an actual rug from my bedroom floor, although that would have made packing easier. This one appeared entirely by imagination, which, as it turns out, is a very reliable construction material. A very reliable one. No fuel required, no TSA inspections, FAA clearance pending. Childhood teaches us the most unusual survivor skills. Some children learn to ride bicycles. I learned to summon air transportation. When I was young, my family lived in a house in a town called Arden in Delaware. My room was tucked under the slope of the roof, so the ceiling leaned down toward my bed as though it were trying to whisper secrets. The window was small and square, and at night the moon slipped in sideways like a quiet visitor. I loved that room. It felt like a hiding place, a small sanctuary carved into the roof of the house. My little rabbit hole room. I felt safe there. Still, there were times when I was sent upstairs for punishment, like when I didn't clean my plate or didn't complete my kitchen chores properly. Think Cinderella. But many times I scurried upstairs without prompting, especially when a war was brewing downstairs. On those nights I was particularly grateful for my little nest. And when the flashing lights arrived, which was often enough, I would sit by my window and summon my magic carpet. I remember the plush texture of it, the vibrant colors, the otherworldly patterns and the long soft fringe. I would grab my pink plush dog, jump right into the middle of my friend and rescuer, and off we would go, sailing into the night like a small ship riding the currents of air. Those flashing lights were scary, but also strangely calming. Because when the police cars arrived I knew something important. The chaos was about to end. Soon my father would be escorted away, the house would grow quiet again, and the night would return to something something resembling peace. A strange thing for a child to understand, perhaps, that the flashing lights outside the house meant safety had finally arrived. Looking back, I am amazed that I was never chilly up there in the sky. I never needed ear muffs or a scarf, although that might have been rather snoopy like flying through the night with a scarf trailing behind me. These days, of course, I need a cover up just to crawl out of my warm bed, but back then we sailed above the treetops, above my friends' houses, above the school. Sometimes we sailed above the clouds and close to the moon, its face smiling benevolently down on me. Looking back, I'm fairly certain the moon was the only adult in my life who was smiling at the time. But from up there I could see the whole town, the streets, the houses, the places where people were probably arguing about ordinary things like garbage cans and lawn clippings. I remember thinking how strange adults were. From the sky their problems looked very small, and from up there the shouting in my house grew smaller and smaller too, until it was no bigger than the barking of a distant dog. My magic carpet always returned to me safe and sound once my anxiety had settled and I could climb back into my bed and sleep. Now I'm a grown up, supposedly. But sometimes I still wish for that magic carpet, a way to escape bills and sick dogs and broken relationships. I've checked Amazon several times. Unfortunately, Prime does not deliver magic carpets. But all these years later I discovered something interesting. The magic carpet never really left. It simply changed form. Of course the little girl sitting in that upstairs room had no idea she was practicing anything spiritual, because she wasn't meditating, she wasn't invoking divine protection. She was simply doing what children do best, using imagination to survive the moment. It took me many years to understand something remarkable. That magic carpet wasn't just fantasy. It was my first experience of stepping outside the storm and watching it from above. That little girl had discovered something profound long before she had language for it. We are not the only ones inside the chaos. We are also the ones who can rise above it and witness it. So these days my magic carpet looks a little different. Sometimes I imagine a small fairy version of myself floating just above the scene of my life. At this point some of you may be wondering if it's time to call for a nice white jacket with very long sleeves, but stay with me. This little fairy calm, this little fairy self is calm and curious and not as dramatic as the woman she is observing. From that gentle distance I can watch my reactions begin to rise, irritation, worry, the impulse to fix everything immediately. And instead of being swept away by them, I can pause. I can ask a simple question What is actually happening here? The fairy self does not scold, she does not panic, she does not try to control the story. She simply watches, and from that small shift in perspective, something remarkable happens. The storm inside my mind begins to settle. In that quieter space I can see my impulses more clearly and choose my responses more wisely. In other words, my friends, the magic carpet still works. Because the magic carpet has always been a kind of shepherd, a protector, a guide. By stepping into that observer self, that fairy self, I am able to step back, discern my impulses, and gently examine my thoughts before acting on them. Looking back now, I can see that little girl riding the magic carpet was indeed protected by the spirit of the universe. She simply didn't have words for that yet. Perhaps the spirit of the universe knew that a child could not understand theology or psychology or spiritual practice. So Spirit offered something simpler. A magic carpet. These days, my magic carpet doesn't take me over rooftops, it mostly takes me above my own thoughts, which frankly can be sometimes just as chaotic as the house I grew up in. Unfortunately, my fairy self does not help with taxes or broken plumbing, but she is excellent in moments of emotional turbulence. And so now I wonder about you, beloved listeners. Do you have your own magic carpet? Or a tree house? Or a book you disappeared into? Or a place in the woods where the grown-up world couldn't reach you? Somewhere you could rise above the noise for a while and remember that a larger sky was always waiting. I'd like to offer a longer breathing space now, an invitation to let this teaching land in your body, not just your mind. I call it step out of the shallows. If it feels comfortable, close your eyes or simply soften your gaze. Take a slow breath in through your nose and gently release it out of your mouth. Again, breathe in and breathe out. Allow your body to settle wherever you are sitting. Notice the support beneath you, the chair, the floor, the earth itself holding you. Take another slow breath and let the day begin to soften around the edges. Now, imagine that just above the busy surface of your thoughts, there is a quiet space, a spacious place within you that is calm and steady and wise. This is the part of you that can observe without judgment, the part of you that can step back from the noise of the world. You might imagine this as a gentle light or a peaceful presence, or perhaps simply a sense of spacious awareness. From this place you are able to watch your thoughts come and go like clouds moving across a wide sky. Worries may appear, plans may arise, memories may drift through, but you do not have to chase them. You simply notice and allow them to pass. In this quiet space you may begin to sense something deeper, an inner guidance, a presence that has always been with you, the same quiet wisdom that steadied you as a child and continues to guide you now. You may not hear words from this guidance. Often it comes as a feeling, a gentle knowing, a sense of clarity. Take a moment to rest in that awareness, breathing slowly, allowing your mind to settle, trusting that this quiet presence within you is always available. Even in the midst of chaos, when life feels uncertain, there is always a place within you that can rise above the storm, a place of wisdom, a place of calm, a place where guidance quietly waits. Take in one more slow breath and gently release it. And when you're ready, bring your awareness back to the room, carrying that sense of calm and guidance with you. And as we close our time together, remember my friends, even in the ordinary moments of your day, there is always light waiting in the garden. Until next time, take good care of yourselves and of each other. And finally, before you leave, if you find value here and would like to spend some one on one time with me, I offer spiritual companionship. Sometimes it helps to have a steady presence beside you as you listen for your own inner wisdom and find your way forward.