Sharon Lin

From the earliest days of human history, before the film industry developed techniques to portray magic onscreen, and before magicians began practicing sleight-of-hand tricks to captivate audiences worldwide, humans have been fascinated by magic.

Magic is often described as a phenomenon impossible to explain, yet universally experienced. How it is understood, however, often differs from person to person. For some, magic is simply the suspension of belief, and the ability to trust in an unpredictable external force of the universe. For others, it is a mysterious power governed by systematic laws unknown to humans.

Similar to how we now often try to explain natural phenomena through logical progressions based in science, humans once explained these same forces through magic. This unknown power, as it seemed, held answers that we now turn to physics and biology to find.

The way we came up with such explanations has led to a great amount of inquiry over the years. British science and science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke developed three propositions during his career, as predictions regarding the advancement of human knowledge:

Clarke’s argument demonstrates that magic is not simply a device used in the past to explain any and all seemingly supernatural occurrences. It still exists today, albeit in a different form. The way we approach technology and scientific advancements is so similar to the way we once approached magic, that both processes can almost be said to be the same.

No matter what mythology or fables you read, no matter where they originate, there’s an element of magic that seems to link all creation tales. Perhaps this was because magic seemed like a reasonable conclusion to explain the natural occurrences of the cosmos. Assuming that magic existed allowed early humans to trust in some believable element and conjure an explanation for what they saw.

In many cultures, magic was even “practiced” by worshipers, who conducted complex rituals in order to communicate with the spirits and powers of the natural world. The ancient Egyptians appointed a High Priest to their pharaoh’s court to perform magic for burials, births, and other sacred ceremonies. The ancient Greeks similarly used a combination of medical practices and magic to heal their wounded and send their dead to the afterlife. Such rituals allowed believers to experience a sense of control over the unknown, especially since modern science had yet to be developed. In a universe with almost no explanations for common occurrences like death and disease, magic was a respite from the fear of not understanding the natural world. For the societies of the past, it was a way of explaining how nature worked.

In modern times, however, science and logic have permeated our understanding of the natural universe. Today, most of us think magic exists solely in fiction, where its powers are safely confined to the artistic choices of artists and writers. Even the most seemingly inexplicable tricks of street magicians and performance magic can be easily explained. Ironically, our obsession today with using science to find a logical explanation for all natural phenomena is remarkably similar to the approach people once
took towards explaining their world through magic. From experimental rituals to theories and explanations, many modern practices mirror how people once saw magic. Only in retrospect does the truth reveal itself — magic is nothing more than an experience through a different lens. The way we perceive science is no different from the way we once perceived divinations and enchantments.

To the ordinary person, many of today’s technological advances are taken for granted. To be able to tap a button on a metal box and access the world’s information is a little mind-blowing, and yet it goes unquestioned because it is a product of science and its components were clearly created by humans. On the other hand, natural phenomena — light poles, auroras, lenticular clouds, and volcanic lightning — are endlessly scoured for a scientific explanation that can dispel the magic from their existence.

Nevertheless, the aspects of science that inspire human curiosity are built upon a set of rules that governs the universe. These rules have been proven through trial and error, and have been shown to hold in nearly all circumstances throughout the universe. However, there is nothing preventing the universe from presenting exceptions to the norm. Science produces quantifiably proven answers, but there are often times when it is impossible to guess what the results of an experiment may be, no matter how much work is put into calculating the results ahead of time.

It may seem contradictory, but consider the recent discovery of gravitational radiation by the Caltech Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory (LIGO) team. According to the scientists, gravity — a phenomena previously believed to be a physical force of the universe — has been shown to be akin to ripples in the space-time continuum. This discovery showcases the inevitable flux that exists in our understanding of science. To the average person such a discovery is almost unexplainable; there are few facts on which they can base their understanding, and so they take the knowledge of the discovery for granted. With all of the scientific discoveries made and laws changed every day, and all of the laymen who fail to understand yet readily accept such revelations as fact, magic almost seems stable and resolute in comparison.

It is from this exact fact that Clarke drew his conclusions. So many of us do not quite understand science. We simply enjoy knowing that there are ways to prove everything in our world, and that there is a method to the chaos of the universe. Ancient people also entrusted their shamans, priests, and magicians with controlling the universe.

Rituals, chants, and ceremonies once were performed to create an atmosphere of restraint about the world. By instituting laws and controlling what could and could not be done, people were able to perceive the world as more manageable, its many intricacies more easily understood by the average person. For instance, the ancient Egyptians trained their priests to perform rituals to heal wounds. They believed that by appealing to the powers of the gods, they could manipulate their physical world and bring miracles into being. Although we now understand medicine to be a biochemical process, there are still many aspects of the human body that are not understood, especially regarding abnormalities in injuries.

Science exists in the same way that magic once did — as a form of human expression to make sense of our world. Our current faith in science and deduction has its roots in magical practices, vying for explanations to the uncertain and apparent randomness of our existence. Both approaches share a similar imperative curiosity for discovery, penchant for drawing conclusions, and knack for building upon a foundation of laws. Both, too, are prone to elaborate rituals and ceremonies — actual ceremonies for magicians and scientific and engineering processes for scientists.

As Clarke said, the only way to test our limits is to venture beyond, “into the impossible.”

Perhaps our transition from magic to science over the years has been nothing more than a simple sign of humanity’s maturation. Rather than taking a passive approach to understanding the universe, we have opted for an active stance, with the ability to question, experiment, and test the limits of our understanding. Although we now rely on scientific explanations for common phenomena, perhaps further ventures into the impossible will reveal that there is magic in our world after all.

Jones, Andrew Zimmerman. “What Are Clarke’s Laws?” About Education. Accessed January 2016. http://physics.about.com/od/physics101thebasics/f/ClarkesLaws.htm

Seawright, Caroline. “Heka: Tales of Magic in Ancient Egypt.” April 24, 2001. Accessed February 2016. http://www.thekeep.org/~kunoichi/kunoichi/themestream/egypt_magic.html#.VthQ1-YTXMt

The Center for the Tebtunis Papyri Online Exhibits. “Religion, Magic, and Medicine at Ptolemaic and Roman Tebtunis.” The Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley. Accessed February 2016. http://tebtunis.berkeley.edu/exhibit/drathbone/4

In a KidSpirit Feature article, teen writer Sharon Lin looks to science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke to argue that the concepts of science and magic may be closely linked.

Modern Technology or Modern Magic?

Grace Snarr

Fables and legends have fascinated me ever since I was a little girl.

My personal connection to storytelling began when my mother and father put me to sleep every night. They would tuck me in, say prayers with me, and then tell or read a story. I listened intently to the tales ofLittle Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks. Myths have universal resonance because they convey morals that apply to all of us.

As humans, we are obsessed with trying to explain our nature. Since the dawn of time, stories have been the primary way for us to pass on traditions and knowledge, to teach and preserve history. Myths have grown out of our innate desire to understand who we are as humans. Their themes represent the same morals and values, interpreted across many cultures.

There are universal truths in myths that resonate with human nature and enable us to work through moral dilemmas we all face, including whether to choose the path of integrity. The ancient Greek tale of Heracles presents a dramatic story. Kakia, the Greek goddess of vice, and Arete, the Greek goddess of moral virtue, offer Heracles the choice between instant wealth and pleasure, or lasting glory through hard work.

The strong, admired character of Heracles faces this obstacle: choosing between right and wrong. I encounter this problem every day! I have to make many choices, such as the possibility of going to university, who to hang out with, and the kind of media I consume. The myth of Heracles teaches the strength of choosing a path of integrity. I wouldn’t be able to make good decisions without moral examples, such as Heracles.

Though written in a different time and place, the Hebrew Bible also contains a story that illustrates the principle of choice and virtue very well. In the Book of Esther, there is a tale that describes the strength and courage of Queen Vashti. Her husband, the Persian king Ahasuerus, holds a banquet that lasts 187 days.

On the 187th day, the king, having drunk a lot of wine, requests that Vashti come to him in order to present her in all her beauty to his guests. She refuses to appear before the impulsive, drunken king and his court. She stands up for herself and her modesty, instead of dancing before the court. As punishment, King Ahasuerus and his counselors exile her with the sentence to never return to their country.

Just like Heracles, Queen Vashti showed courage and power by choosing the virtuous path. Even though the consequences are hard, she choose to stand up for herself and for the women of her kingdom. I admire her willingness to protect herself in the midst of enormous pressure. This story taught me about hard-core integrity even in the face of danger.

Queen Vashti and Heracles choose integrity, as do the heroes of countless other myths. This theme resonates with so many people because it has always been important to stand up for what’s right. When reading and listening to these stories, I feel a deep pull to the questions they force us to consider; tides of truth are what inspired the authors and us today.

Myths were once passed down from sage to apprentice. In modern times, they still allow information and morals to be passed down from generation to generation. The information available in our world today is enormous, and we learn treasured knowledge on the Internet and through movies. My generation has access to more information than any other previous generation in history. However, only the medium has changed, not the actual stories or themes.

Reflecting back on my childhood, I remember the meaningful moments I shared with my parents. They helped me identify universal truths in myths and stories. No matter how we encounter certain myths, their forms will always have a universal meaning because of their underlying teachings.

In a KidSpirit Big Question response, teen writer Grace Snarr describes the insights and moral instruction that Greek myths provide for us.

Why Do Certain Myths Have Universal Resonance?

Samarth Jajoo

When The Force Awakens came out, a lot of my friends were talking about it in school. Not only that, I couldn’t even read the newspaper without noticing headlines which said that the movie was playing to full houses.

I really didn’t want to watch it before seeing the other six Star Wars films, but after some time I could no longer resist, relaxing into a theater chair with my family and, of course, a big bowl of popcorn. The title of the episode intrigued me because it seemed to symbolize a powerful message. It sounds like the dawn of a new era and an important turning point in the series.

Yes. The Force Awakens was my first Star Wars movie, and I loved it. It got me hooked on the Star Wars franchise. Within a week I had watched half of the saga.

The Force Awakens is the compelling new episode in the Star Wars saga. It is set to reboot the series with an engaging combination of myth and magic, suspense and tragedy. Seeing swirling spaceships at dizzying speeds and confronting spine-chilling magic leaves you breathless. Star Wars has been around since the 1970s and the same universe still exists. Watch The Force Awakens to find Luke Skywalker and learn about how a storm trooper almost saves the Galactic Republic in a thrilling adventure for the young and elderly alike!

The “force” plays a big part in this movie. The force is an aura — an energy field that binds the Star Wars universe together. It is formed from the energy in every living creature. Director J. J. Abrams uses it to its full potential to rekindle Star Wars. He turns the film into an experience with lots of twists and turns and no element of the plot predictable. The Star Wars series has always been mythical. This time the force makes it magical, too! This is because J. J. Abrams highlights the unexplained parts of the movie in order to build excitement. This magical role of the force kept me engrossed in the movie — sometimes with my hair standing on end.

The cinematography is surreal. I was left in awe and wonder because of the superb projection of the cosmos and galaxies. The spaceships look completely realistic. It actually felt as if I was watching the movie in 3D, even though I wasn’t. Jakku (one of the main planets depicted in this movie) is shown in a way that evokes old Star Wars memories of Tatooine (Luke Skywalker’s home planet). Jakku might be the new center of the Star Wars universe.

Andy Serkis, who plays Snoke, the Supreme Leader of the Dark Side, stands out as the most intense actor because of his deep and evil voice. He is seen for only five or ten minutes in the whole movie, but he left a huge impact on me; his evil voice can’t be forgotten. Daisy Ridley, the actress who plays Rey, is also exceptional in the way that she carries herself, projecting mental and spiritual strength. She is remarkably skilled at swinging a lightsaber, very confident and graceful. Harrison Ford, as Han Solo, became the actor and character fused into one. All of the droids were as cute as they have always been — especially BB-8. Perhaps someday I will learn to build an android.

The Force Awakens is a very emotional movie. More than the technical aspects, Star Wars is about belief. Just when all hope is lost, new paths suddenly emerge. Star Wars is like the saying “Faith, trust, and pixie dust” from Peter Pan. You can’t get anywhere in the Star Wars universe without belief and faith in the force. I think this is the most exciting Star Wars yet. Just take a look at the engaging storyline and you’ll agree with me. The movie ultimately is about a quest, though much of the story is still not very clear, especially at the end.

I feel the movie deserves 4.5 stars because I loved the plot, especially the twists in the tale, and the larger-than-life projection of Luke Skywalker (the camera rotates all around him). I’m omitting half a star because the movie left me with a feeling of incompleteness, though that did add to my inquisitiveness for the sequel. I was also expecting to see and hear a little more from Mark Hammil, the actor who plays Luke. The movie’s take on new weapons also seemed quite incomplete. There has been lots of criticism about Kylo’s tri-lightsaber, but that’s the only weapon in the movie that I liked. Other weapons and spaceships weren’t bad; it’s just that when you watch Star Wars, you expect to see new weapons and more advanced spaceships than in the previous episodes.

I don’t want to give away the story details, thus “spoiling” a surprise and robbing you of the suspense of this crazily engrossing film. Just know that the movie is a thrilling ride through a futuristic world. It makes you feel like our earth, or our universe for that matter, is minuscule. Sometimes the human mind feels the strong urge to traverse an unexplored path. After all, the fact that inexplicable things exist is what encourages us to make new discoveries.

So, if you haven’t seen the movie yet, don’t hesitate! It’s sure to bring back old memories or even create new ones!

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Samarth Jajoo discusses J. J. Abrams's film Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

Hold Your Breath: The Force Awakens

Khoi Bui

Allow me to start off by asking you something: Have you ever seen a magic show? If so, I hope it was a good one, because I’d like you to remember the feeling you had while you were there — that feeling of amazement and wonder, the intrigue that built as your mind was boggled and your attention stolen.

The world’s greatest sleight-of-hand artist, Apollo Robbins, once asked, “If you could control somebody’s attention, what would you do with it?”

One might be able to see why a magician would potentially want to control the attention of his or her spectators; it’s part of our job to take people’s perception and use it against them. I am a magician by trade and a storyteller by heart. To me, magic is simply telling a fictional story and bringing it to life in front of your eyes. Magic is proof that people can accomplish what is perceived to be impossible.

However, to the magician, magic is so much more than deceiving others. Magic is an art, an expression of our skills and imagination, that we present to our audiences. It is a method of communication, a way to entertain and associate ourselves with our peers. It’s unique. It takes dedication to learn to pull off defiant acts of magic, such as flouting physics and bending flames. All that work is finally worth it when you find the perfect crowd, see their expressions of awe, and earn their admiration.

One of my most memorable experiences took place about a year ago, when I went on a Caribbean cruise with my family over spring break. Walking through the ship’s corridors and losing my way more than once, I finally found my cabin. Wasting no time, I immediately moved to unpack. At the very bottom of my luggage I found exactly what I was looking for.

I cleared off the desk to make room, then began to lay out my arsenal: a few paper clips and rubber bands, a bottle of rubber cement, more than a few decks of cards, and a small box with an iron ring bearing the symbol of the shattered spade as its crest. The ring was purely aesthetic, but it made people think, and sometimes that’s exactly what you want.

After dinner that night, I began to look for activities to do on the cruise. I found that the ship had a teenage lounge. Eager to meet new people and perform, I looped around the ship with my deck of cards and found the room. A woman greeted me and asked for ship ID to prove I was under 18. After playing a few games of cards, we decided to go around the room and introduce ourselves. When it was my turn, I told them my name, that I was from New York, and that I was a magician. The question came instantly: “Can you show us a magic trick?”

I’ve always found a performance to be so much better and more immersive when the audience is directly in front of you — where there’s no room to hide anything.

I started with a card trick. Every time someone snapped their fingers, their card reemerged at the top of the deck. Then we played a few other games until I decided to leave.

The impression that I made on the crowd that night was vivid. Everywhere I went, the people that I had met knew my name. They wanted to introduce me to their family and friends so I could show them more magic. A few even asked for my autograph on cards. It was as if I were a small celebrity to them.

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting so many new people because of my art. For the rest of the trip some of my new friends and I would stay up late into the night; we just hung around the back of the boat, talking, sharing stories, and having a great time. This would be the first of many fun and rewarding experiences with magic. From this, I’ve come to truly appreciate everything that magic can provide.

Magic is a way to meet and communicate with people. It’s a unique skill that can build up your confidence, because to be truly successful, you need charisma to back up your act. All the effort is worth it because of the relationships you create and the smiles and laughter from the audience that leave you amazed.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Khoi Bui uses sleight of hand magic to communicate stories and bring people together.

The Wonder of Magic

Will Hodgkinson

Slowly, tentatively at first,
the world roused itself.

The hard merciless frost
yielded and the soft heady
redolence of damp loam
and fresh flowers rose
into the pure air.

Up above,
in the limpid azure sky,
the great bright orb
of the sun climbed,
high and assured,
its deep intoxicating warmth
spreading across
the luxuriant emerald pastures,
the quiet shadowed glades,
the clear dulcet brooks.

The animals crept diffidently
from their dens then,
reveling at their
benignant welcome,
galloped in joy
through the blooming vista.

The world had been resurrected,
drawn out of the dark boreal void
it had been consigned to.

But amid
this vital scene,
a man stood motionless,
golden head bowed,
as if in fervent prayer,
staring
into the still pool
below him.

Rapt eyes.
Transfixed by the dead
picture in the tranquil mirror.

Around him, fragrant breezes
whisper.
Birds wheel above,
singing with merriment.

The whole verdant tableaux
pulses with vibrant life.
And still the ghastly static
goes on and on.

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Will Hodgkinson reflects on the Greek myth of Narcissus.

Narcissus

Noorjehan Asim

I’ve always had a soft spot for the surreal.

My fondest childhood memories are of my grandmother’s dark bedroom, dimly lit by a row of candles. Despite Pakistan’s notorious ups and downs with power generation, this darkness was deliberate.

During my childhood, evenings were a gateway to a world beyond toys and television. The tedium of everyday life of school and chores was replaced by story time, a time when my grandmother, my sister and I, huddled around our candlelit table. My grandmother had the most interesting tales to tell. I remember the admiration I felt for her, the way she seamlessly wove together tales of magic, mystery, and emotion. She told stories about princes and princesses, wars and giants, deserts and conquests, grasping our seemingly short childish attention spans.

One story that resonated with my sister and me was about a prince, an heir to the throne of a vast kingdom who traveled across a harsh desert to rescue his childhood sweetheart from a ferocious giant. This was our favorite tale. It had the perfect mix of action, drama, and romance; we could almost picture the prince dueling with beasts in the scorching sun.

My grandmother told stories that were immersive, evoked strong emotion, and concocted the perfect atmosphere. This was, indeed, the art of storytelling.

My grandmother’s mastery over this art made story time a pure delight. The most distinct feature of her stories was that they were laden with references to our culture and heritage. Having spent six years of my childhood in the United States, I was well acquainted with the Brothers Grimm and Aesop’s Fables. Yet amid these other tales, my grandmother worked to keep our own culture alive. I found myself drawn to the world of sultans and jinns, stories of Mughals and their courtyards, their wars and conquests. I was introduced to an entirely different view of my culture and the history behind it, a world beyond the average fairy tale. These stories brought me close to my heritage, fueling my desire to learn about where I came from.

Developing this sense of self became increasingly important for me as time went by.

I experienced many changes when I was a child. Upon moving back home from the United States, I was exposed to an entirely different lifestyle in Pakistan. I moved into a new house, was surrounded by new people, and struggled to grasp an entirely new language. One constant that remained throughout was the time my sister and I spent with our grandmother. Every day until her death, we visited her house, our senses startled alert with the wonderful, vivid legends she narrated.

Her stories taught me how to imagine worlds where the impossible became reality. It became easier to associate with the world around me once I learned to love the fragments of my culture that she imparted to us through her stories.

"Her stories taught me how to imagine worlds where the impossible became reality."

When I was 11, she lost her battle with lung cancer, and I lost my most prized companion. Life became dull; there were no more stories to tell — no candle-lit rooms, nothing to look forward to as the days drew to an end. I threw myself into studying mythology to keep her memory alive. I took an immense liking to Greek legends and, with time, found myself stacking books that highlighted the land of gods and monsters in intricate detail.

I had explored cultures of lands all over the globe, and was no stranger to the world of the Aztecs, the Celts, the Vikings, and the Romans. But in my quest to find refuge in stories that reminded me of my grandmother, I had somehow managed to overlook the ones from my own land. I remembered how my grandmother fondly spoke of the Mughals; how my very own namesake, Queen Noorjehan, was part of a vast empire with an illustrious past.

I embarked on a journey for epics and sagas from my own culture. In time, I stumbled across the legends of Amir Hamza.

An 8,000-page compilation of short stories detailing the life of its protagonist, Hamzanama, as our people call it, is said to be the Iliad of the subcontinent. It is the longest single romance cycle in history, filled with innumerable subplots and a cast of dragons, giants, jinns (spirits), simurghs (griffins), sorcerers, princesses, flying carpets, and urns. Every story chronicles the struggle Amir Hamza faces while trying to go home to his love, Mehr Nigar.

Hamzanama was reminiscent of the stories my grandmother told me as a child: a prince gallantly roamed Asia in search for his true love, who was being held captive by an archenemy. The tales were so loved by the Mughals that the last surviving transcripts were said to be in Akbar the Great’s possession until the day he died. Through Amir Hamza’s travels I learned of the world of Mughal India, with its obsession for gardens, its love for poetry, and its refined food and mannerisms. Amir Hamza encapsulated the aura of adventure and grandeur for which the empire itself is remembered today.

A particular favorite is the story of Hell-Cave Bano, a powerful sorceress, who captures Mehr Nigar and tries to trick Amir Hamza into killing himself. The sorceress tries to kill the protagonist by deceiving Mehr Nigar into entering a dingy cellar. Her son, Bakhtak, one of Amir Hamza’s companions, is unaware of his mother’s intentions. The sorceress lies to him, telling him the princess she has kidnapped is dead. Amir Hamza, in a valiant quest to avenge the death of his beloved, teams up with fire-worshipers and jinns to attack the witch at her headquarters. After the untimely death of Bakhtak during a fierce battle, Amir Hamza spares the life of the sorceress, leading to the ultimate release of Mehr Nigar.

Above all else the story shows the merits of kindness and forgiveness, which are qualities my grandmother exemplified. With the unique setting, the action, and the drama, it was almost as if the time spent huddled before our candlelit table with my grandmother suddenly reappeared. As if I were allowed to relive the happy moments whenever I wanted.

Mythology creates a world so distinct from ours that it allows us to exercise our imaginations, even in moments when we feel the most alone. It helps us to look into the lives of others, relate to fictional characters on a spiritual level, and realize that we truly aren’t the only ones experiencing inner turmoil or intense emotions.

Amir Hamza’s stories also hold special significance for me because of the way in which they effortlessly prove the existence of immortality. Amir Hamza’s stories live on among today’s generations of Indians and Pakistanis all over the world. In a way, I learned that despite her physical absence, my grandmother, too, lives on in the stories she told.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Noorjehan Asim reads the legends of Amir Hamza to connect with her grandmother and her Pakistani roots.

Grandmother's Mythic Kingdom

Dr. Maria Tatar

Fairy tales, like all stories with a touch of magic, have a high quotient of weirdness.

These narratives take us out of our comfort zones, roughing us up in the process and sometimes even rewiring our brains. Beans that grow into sky-high beanstalks, a bloodthirsty giant who grinds bones to make his bread, a goose that lays golden eggs — those were the curious ingredients that got me thinking as a child about perils and possibilities. At first it was the sheer drama on the page that had me hooked, along with the fact that characters who are small and meek always turn the tables on ogres, witches, and other trolls. Then, over the years, I became addicted to the challenges of making sense out of these stories — trying hard to figure out why we keep retelling them even as we make them our own by making them new.

How do you explain a German story about a girl named Thousandfurs, who dresses up in pelts made from the coats of many different animals and takes up residence in a hollow tree? Why does a young man named Don Juan break ranks with his brothers and marry a monkey named Chonguita in a story told in the Philippines? What is that old woman doing in the Russian woods, living in a hut on chicken legs surrounded by a fence with posts made from human skulls?

Churchill once spoke of “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma” (he was referring to Russia), and today I like to use that same phrase to describe stories that are at their core deceptively simple and simply deceptive. We decode them not just while we are reading them, but also when we talk about them with others who have been shocked and startled by their content. Fairy tales, once told around the fireside by adults to multi-generational audiences, were meant to provoke conversation and promote collective problem solving. They added value to the store of communal wisdom in cultures where nothing was ever written down.

We often underestimate fairy tales because of the misleading name given to the genre. The sprightly supernatural creatures featured so prominently in that name rarely make an appearance in representative stories. There are none in “Little Red Riding Hood,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Hansel and Gretel,” or “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Other cultural factors come into play when it comes to the devaluation of fairy tales. There is, first and foremost, the 20th-century Disneyfication of fairy tales, a move that many said turned the stories into cartoon versions of themselves. Frivolous, juvenile, shallow, inconsequential: all those attributes are captured in the dismissive phrase: “That’s just a fairy tale.”

We discard these fables at our peril. The presence of magic and enchantment is one of their defining features, which is why J.R.R. Tolkien placed them into the domain of Faërie, that “Perilous Realm” where anything can happen. It is there that we confront the great “What if?” But, as importantly, there is something primal in these tales — they have more than the whiff of the archaic. Italo Calvino, both novelist and collector of Italian lore, once observed that “the vibrancy of myth” passes through the forest of fairy tale “like a shudder of the wind.” Along with many anthropologists and folklorists, Calvino understood the kaleidoscopic nature of storytelling. With a slight rotation, you can move from what we call the myth of Zeus and Europa to the fairy tale about Beauty and the Beast. Both narratives belong in the great Cauldron of Story, that constantly simmering brew to which each generation adds new ingredients to enhance the zest and the flavor of a story.

"Both narratives belong in the great Cauldron of Story, that constantly simmering brew to which each generation adds new ingredients to enhance the zest and the flavor of a story."

“The world of mythology is round,” Claude Lévi-Strauss once observed, in an effort to explain to his fellow anthropologists how all versions of a story belong to the myth, with no single point of origin. Still, many of the most revered experts have insisted on a strict divide between fairy tales, banished to the culture of childhood, and myth, part of the childhood of culture. “Fairy tales are told for entertainment,” Joseph Campbell declared. “You’ve got to distinguish between the myths that have to do with the serious matter of living life in terms of society and of nature, and stories with some of those same motifs that are told for entertainment.” Campbell correctly recognized the shared thematic repertoires of fairy tales and myth, but he failed to understand how myth contains multitudes of stories, with all their variant forms.

Today, it is the rebels who keep fairy tales alive. It took irreverence to violate the taboos on rewriting stories that were sometimes overvalued (W.H. Auden once described the Grimms’ fairy tales as “ranking next to the Bible in importance”) even as they were trivialized. Fairy tales have a history of shape-shifting. Beginning in the 1960s, writers with many different agendas rediscovered fairy tales, and they quickly pointed out that the stories were not written in granite. They were in fact so elastic, malleable, and resilient that you could twist them, pretzel-like, into quirky, new shapes without losing any of their narrative mass.

These days fairy tales are passed on to us through what the media gurus call multiple “delivery systems,” and the stories have reclaimed a multi-generational appeal. Children can read versions of “Little Red Riding Hood” by the Brothers Grimm, but also by Jon Sczieska, who turns her into Little Red Running Shorts. Teens can watch Catherine Hardwicke’s Red Riding Hood, featuring Amanda Seyfried, or take in camp versions of her story in the film Freeway, with Reese Witherspoon, or in the chilling horror film Hard Candy. Adults can get their dose of that same story from Angela Carter’s “Company of Wolves” or Anne Sexton’s Transformations. And now we have new versions like ABC’s Once Upon a Time that aim not only to tell the story but also to draw viewers into the glow of a virtual world constructed around fairy-tale narratives.

Fairy tales are encoded with enigmas, provocative puzzles charged with existential mysteries. Hansel and Gretel, forced to leave home, face down a demon who embodies warmth and hospitality — offering the children milk, pancakes, and cozy beds and then turning murderously hostile, fattening them up for a feast. Beauty is turned over to Beast in a story that tests the limits of compassion and empathy in the face of monstrosity. Briar Rose feeds our desire for beauty’s protection against mortality, corruption, and decay. The constant in these stories is less character than abstract concepts, always reshuffled and reinvigorated by the values of the next generation of tellers.

The spirit of storytelling takes up cultural contradictions, strips them down to their core, and enacts those abstractions in fairy-tale plots. In “Little Red Riding Hood,” for example, the predator/prey relationship is mapped onto the question of innocence and seduction in ways that produce a cultural repetition compulsion as we try in vain to get the story right. These miniature models, primal and mythical, generate talk. They may be “big old lies,” as the African American writer and folklorist Zora Neale Hurston called them, but they challenge us to fill in the details, to complete the story, to think more and to think harder as we inch our way to some kind of higher truth.

As importantly, the consolations of imagination are never imaginary consolations, and the triumph of Cinderella can make suffering endurable just as the conquest of the witch ensures some kind of justice in the world. After all, a wizard named Dumbledore — a man who understood the sorcery of words better than most — taught us not so long ago that the things happening in our heads are just as real as what takes place in our daily lives.

In a KidSpirit PerSpectives article, folklore expert Dr. Maria Tatar talks about why fables and fairy tales remain important in the modern age.

A Touch of Magic

Ameena Naqvi

The waves crashed softly against the boat, pushing it towards the shore. My grandfather stepped off the boat and tied the rope to the dock. That day my grandfather was going to teach me how to sail.

He described sailing as flying over water. It was like freedom to him, to set sail into the wide blue sea and leave his responsibilities on shore. However, I did not see the appeal of sailing as he did. The whole activity made me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable, as I was at the mercy of the waves and unpredictable weather.

With a deep breath I stepped onto the boat and began to drift in the unpredictable tide with my grandfather. As we got further away from land I began to feel nervous. Suddenly the boat jerked forward with the force of the water, and I was pushed against the mast, tilting the boat to one side. This took both my grandfather and me by surprise, and we almost fell into the churning sea.

When the boat finally regained its balance, I was taken aback by my grandfather’s laugh. I felt my face turning red hot with embarrassment. With a chuckle he offered me the tiller. Looking at him with disbelief, I downright refused. I said plainly through gritted teeth, “I will not make a fool out of myself! I have no love for sailing!”

Expecting a scolding, I was surprised when all he did was slacken the mainsheet to slow the sailboat. He gestured me towards a seat next to him and asked, “Have I ever told you the story about Prophet Yunus?”

He recounted the Islamic story of Prophet Yunus (also referred to as Jonah). Prophet Yunus was sent to teach the inhabitants of a town called Nineveh about the message of Islam. However, the people in Nineveh rejected his message and persisted in their wrongdoing. The prophet got so frustrated that he left on his ship in anger. In his absence, the villagers sought Allah’s (God’s) forgiveness and were spared from punishment. Meanwhile, a terrible storm occurred while Prophet Yunus was sailing, throwing him into the sea. A whale came to the surface and swallowed Prophet Yunus, shutting its teeth like white bolts in a prison cell. This was a punishment from Allah, because instead of being persistent he had abandoned his mission and left Nineveh. Once he had realized his mistake, he prayed, and Allah gave him another chance.

Here my grandfather concluded by saying, “Whenever you feel like giving up, remember the story of the Prophet Yunus.”

Those words were inspiring to me. It was then that I realized the power of resilience and persistence. I was so moved by the story that I stood up and tried holding the mast again.

It was the summer of 2013, and the television lit up with horrific scenes beneath the headline “Alberta Floods.” Waves smashed down and destroyed people’s homes and belongings as families watched helplessly.

When this terrible disaster struck my hometown of Calgary, Canada, I tried to ignore it, thinking that rescue workers would take care of it. I attempted to satisfy my conscience with the delusion that there was nothing that I could do about the tragedy. This thought was completely wiped away when I found out that my close friend, Shelly, had lost everything because of the flood.

I was reminded of the story of Prophet Yunus. Just like him, I had abandoned my community by thinking that there was nothing I could do. Like him, I also got back onto my feet and decided to take action. I didn’t do it alone; the prophet was helped by a whale, and I had the help of the Muslim Youth Organization. They lifted me to the surface by teaching me the impact of my actions and giving me skills that I could use to help my community. They showed me that everyone has the capacity to change the world, but only if they are willing.

Growing up I often struggled with connecting to my community. I complained about issues that occurred locally or globally but didn’t do anything to change them. I ignored the world’s problems and blamed others for not taking initiative. After the floods, I learned that change would not occur unless I advocated for it. I discovered that the key to making a difference is eagerness and willingness to change the world around you.

Through reconnecting with my community I also connected with my grandfather’s spiritual teachings. In the past, I had often disregarded his religious lessons thinking that they were insignificant and pointless. However, after the Alberta floods, I reconnected with that part of my identity. I learned the true meaning of my grandfather’s miraculous stories — such as the one about Prophet Yunus — and applied them to my daily life. My grandfather’s words of wisdom still echo in my ear today, urging me to make a difference in the world around me.

Now, whenever I am faced with trials in life, I simply remember the story of Prophet Yunus. The story reminds me that giving up is not the answer and gives me the power to carry on through any obstacle.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connection article, teen writer Ameena Naqvi is inspired by her grandfather's tale of Prophet Yunus to help flood victims in Alberta.

Sailing Through a Storm

Katie Reis

I’m not a religious person. I was baptized a Catholic but slowly realized that many of Catholicism’s beliefs and principles did not fit my own. Over the years, I have explored many different religions.

After I visited Japan as part of a student exchange program about a year ago, I became fascinated with Shintoism. Shinto beliefs are encapsulated by a perspective of seeing nature and the world in all its beauty. Shintoism emphasizes an aesthetic sensitivity, placing great value on nature, harmony, and balance in a person’s life.

As part of my trip to Japan I stayed with a host family in the mountainous region of Nagano Prefecture in the town of Hakuba Valley. My hosts were a Japanese couple who spoke little English but showed me the silent wisdom of nature and the importance of kindness and hospitality, values that are greatly emphasized in Japanese culture.

One morning, my host mother Akiko woke me up early to walk the dog, a black lab named Toshi. The walk took us over a mountain and along the way I noticed Shinto shrines everywhere. I felt completely at peace in the quiet morning air. I learned that shrines weren’t necessarily buildings but could be as simple as a rock or as large as a mountain. In fact, in ancient times the only Shinto shrines that existed were mountains, waterfalls, rocks, trees, forests, or cliffs. It wasn’t until more modern times that buildings were built to hold Shinto religious ceremonies.

Mountain worship, referred to in Japan as sangaku shinko, is common among Shintoists. Although all mountains are seen as holy, the most holy mountains in Japan are Mount Koya, Mount Tateyama, Mount Hakusan, and Mount Fuji. Mountain asceticism, or yamabushi, is when people search for spiritual, mystical, or supernatural powers through isolation in nature. Many Shintoists make journeys, or pilgrimages, to explore their faith, linking together many sacred places in the process. These journeys are known as honzon junrei, or to wander around (jun) to worship (rei) the principal deity (honzon).

No matter what form, Shinto shrines are restful places filled with sacred holiness. They provide spiritual vitality. When I felt that sense of tranquility and wholeness in nature, I felt a resonation with the Shinto psyche.

One year later, I felt the magnitude of nature’s magic at 6,662 feet on the peak of Mount Washington.

I stumbled but didn’t fall. I had watched more experienced solo hikers turn back, but didn’t feel afraid as I put one foot in front of the other. I had my crew; my crew had me. We were a force as strong as the 80 mph winds whipping our faces, held together by the unexpected bond we had formed despite having known each other for only two weeks. At incredible heights we had crawled on all fours to avoid getting blown off the cliff while straining our eyes to see our next step. The fog and rain enveloped us as we climbed. The adrenaline rush was like none I’d ever felt!

"We were a force as strong as the 80 mph winds whipping our faces, held together by the unexpected bond we had formed despite having known each other for only two weeks."

Climbing Mount Washington on the last day of our two-week backpacking trek along the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire’s White Mountains gave me a confidence and surefootedness that extended way beyond the physical tests I had faced. At the peak, all eleven of us stood together, huddled like penguins. I looked around and thought about the conversations and laughs I had shared with each person around me. Never before had I become so close to a group of people in such a short time.

My life slowed to a walk, both literally and figuratively, as we hiked 12 hours a day up and down mountains. All non-essentials were stripped away — phones, possessions, comfort foods, civilization. For a time, it seemed, all we had was each other. We had arrived with bits and pieces of our lives from home, but we had unknowingly left behind the superficiality of our high schools’ social constructs. On the trail it didn’t matter what group I belonged to or how many likes I got on an Instagram photo. I perceived the people standing right in front of me as they were in that moment. I felt present in my conversations with these fellow backpackers in a way I had not known before. I could be and think without distraction. No one had a phone to check. Our deepest thoughts stayed with us for longer and we truly paid attention to each other.

Sharing my innermost thoughts and viewpoints in a trusting and accepting environment enabled me to be myself and speak my mind, unabashedly and without restraint. I could step back and re-calibrate my values. I felt carefree.

Small joys suddenly seemed big: washing my feet in a stream at the end of a long day, holding a hot cup of tea on a cold night, painstakingly flipping pancakes in a thunderstorm. I wasn’t wearing makeup, my hair had become dreadlocks, and a mixture of dirt and dried blood tattooed my skin. So it came as a surprise to me that I felt happy on a deep level in a way I hadn’t in a long time. I also felt a connection to Shintoism and an acute awareness of the spirituality of nature and how it shaped who I am. I felt like a mountain worshiper on a pilgrimage, surrounded by the holiness and purity of the trees, moss, and cliffs.

On that last day on the peak of Mount Washington, as my heart beat fast and the adrenaline rushed through me, I felt the magic of nature. I felt magic in the connection I had formed with the people around me in such a short time. I felt something that I had never felt before. In the fresh air, as the weight of my accomplishment dawned on me, I felt complete.

Upon returning to my suburban New Jersey hometown, I began to explore local forests and discovered Harriman State Park, which is just a 30-minute drive from my town. With my two dogs I hiked new trails every day. Nature has become an essential part of me. In the two weeks I spent in those New Hampshire woods, I found the freedom to own who I am and to shape my values from within.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Katie Reis gets in touch with the Shinto tradition of yamabushi — reverence for mountains — when she climbs Mt. Washington.

The Wholeness of Nature

Sunwrita Dastidar

This poem is based on Sita, the heroine of The Ramayana (one of the two great Indian epics) who followed her husband Rama, the prince of Ayodhya, in his 14-year exile to the forest. There Sita was kidnapped by Ravana, the demon-king of Lanka. Sita was forced to undergo agnipariksha, or fire-test, to prove her chastity before Rama when he refused to accept her back after she returned.

Should I laugh or should I cry?
Shocked to find only disgust
When I looked into his blue lotus eyes
Where love had reigned once

How? Why? I knew not what to say
When he ordered, “Light the pyre”
And I looked at the averted eyes
My fury flamed with the fire

“Why the war? Why the pain?
Why save my life in vain?”
He replied without a falter,
“My honor had been stained.

I laughed then, low and harsh
Though dead, Ravana had been right;
Rama never cared for me, or anyone else
For his honor did he fight —

“So now you doubt my worth?” said I,
So low that only he could hear.
All the pain I suffered was for naught
And I asked, “Are you yourself pure?”

Oh, would that he had screamed!
Torn me apart in monstrous rage
Anything but those frozen eyes
Yet not a word was said

Shards of broken belief tore through me
And pain fueled the raging fire
I mocked a smile through my tears
And stepped onto the pyre.

But my tears scalded the flames
I was born once again
Yet not whole, untouched
My blind love for God was dead

I see you, King, now lifeless
And I say, “Please forgive me.
Your words ring now, so true!
He never did come to love me.”

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Sunwrita Dastidar evokes the myth of Sita, the heroine of the Ramayana, who is forced to prove her chastity in a test of fire.

Betrayal

Eliza Moore

Here is this great multitude of sky.
And suddenly little darkened, precarious bodies dart across it,
All perfectly grouped together,
A little mass of beating wings.

Why are they not scattered like stars?
There is plenty of room, little birds.
Why do you not break away from your crowded chaos,
And free yourselves?

You have the whole world,
Space and air and a glimpse
Of this fragile thing we call eternity.
And yet you stay together,
And travel slowly across the shadow of spring.

Now, more than ever,
There is the urge to create something beautiful.
But do not do it alone.

Because those birds go on flying
With a silent, ever-present awareness
Of how easy it is to lose yourself
In this vast expanse.

And you, meaningless black speck of memories,
Will be replaced when you fall.
You will not go unnoticed if you decide to leave,
And drown yourself in forever’s
Infinite shades of blue.

You are not alone,
If you decide to stay.

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Eliza Moore uses birds to reflect on an important choice: staying with others or flying alone.

Birds

Himadri Agarwal

“Where am I?” I wonder,
as I stand trapped between
truth and lies,
fact and fiction,
in the no man’s land they call
myth.

And I move forward
past the comics they gave us as children —
illustrated depictions
by artistic magicians
who bring a world to life.

Past the stories on Sunday morning TV shows —
nostalgic reminiscence
of traversing distances
transcending space and time.

Past the tales heard at grandparents’ feet —
making memories
beyond boundaries
and past the stars.

And finally I reach
the sky
that they call
“myth.”

And finally I meet
the rishis of high stature
who took the princes to Mithila
to raise a god’s bow.
And finally I meet
the man of principles
who forgot them all
and let his wife go.

And finally I meet
all those I had only heard of hitherto.
And finally I meet
all those I never encountered, but always knew.

And finally when I return
from the land they call “myth”
I know.
There is treason and trust,
stories of love and of lust,
of lost friends and unflinching loyalty,
of common men and of royalty,
I know.
In the land they call “myth” —
We have body and we have soul.
I know.
The land of myth
encompasses
all.

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Himadri Agarwal immerses herself in the land of myth, somewhere between fact and fiction.

The Land of Myth

Jaileah Milton

It’s not something you can see or hear;
But it gives you some sort of drive.
It’s like your five senses disappear;
The more you want it, the more you strive.

We held on to it for as long as we could;
But we had some growing up to do.
Was it all imagination? We never understood.
As we got older this “thing” was through.

Whatever it was, it touched us all;
It came in different forms in many ways.
When reality struck in, it caused us to fall.
Leading us into a painful phase.

Something we can’t get to in another world —
Is it in reality? Or is it something so tragic?
No, a dreamworld,
With some “mythical magic."

In a KidSpirit Poem, teen writer Jaileah Milton explores how imagination touches all of us.

Mythical Magic

Lila Hazan

The hotel is a quaint place, all second-hand mattresses and sand pushed into corners. The sun-bleached peeling paint coats the walls and ceilings of the small cottages, and the half-melted tarmac road slithers through the dunes. The sky is a vast, vibrant blue that stretches from horizon to horizon, and the few clouds that bumble their way across it resemble sea foam skimming the surface of a wave.

My neck beads with sweat, and the sun beats down onto my scalp. I’ve just climbed out of the car, but my clothes already stick to my body and uncomfortable cold flashes buzz up and down my spine. The hotel is nearly deserted, and I don’t know whether it has to do with the heat or the fact that I’m in the middle of nowhere.

I’m lying on the mattress now, feet dangling over the edge, springs digging into my back. The curtains are drawn but a sliver of light still falls across my stomach. My earbuds are slick with sweat but I use them regardless, letting the music drown out the almost eerie silence. Soon, the golden light melts into copper and then fades away, leaving me engulfed in darkness. My heart trembles in my rib cage, and I can feel it from the tips of my toes to my ears. My chest rises and falls with each breath, and it feels like I’m part of an audience, sitting in a cinema, or perhaps a sort of ethereal being, peering down from above.

I take another shuddering breath, clear away the cobwebs that have settled in my limbs and eyes, and sit up, exposing my feet to the now cool air. The music fades out of my ears and, when I look down at my phone, I realize it’s because the screen is black and dead. My guitar sits in the corner, shrouded in shadows. I clutch it in my hands as I walk outside. Everything is still — no breeze, no movement, just me. The sky seems even more vast in the dark, perforated with hundreds of stars. The moon is dilated and glowing with a seemingly supernatural light, and it leaves me breathless. I sit on the ground and take out my guitar, letting the pads of my fingers strum the strings.

My words are italicized and hanging in the air. In that moment, it doesn’t matter if my fingers only skim one string or if my voice cracks, because the moon is dangling in the sky and the desert is thrumming with a silent melody.

It was a new feeling, a wave of cool tranquility settling in the depths of my stomach. A feeling that became unattainable when we drove away the next morning. A feeling that only happens once.

That feeling, that moment, my guitar, they are all sacred now; a figurative shrine shoved into one of the boxes in the attic of my mind. That moment was a glimpse into something I don’t yet understand, something “magical.” It showed me the world is not just about what I’ve already seen — it’s so much larger and more beautiful than anything we can observe while we are sitting in our homes staring at computer screens.

When we consider the topic of magic, we often think of the extraordinary, of witchcraft and wizardry, of the supernatural. But now, when my mind drifts to magic, I don’t think about the paranormal. I think about the more mundane yet equally astounding magic that manifests in the barely there whine of electricity at night, or in the beauty and power of the stars.

The word “magic” means “an extraordinary power or influence.” This definition does not solely apply to fantasy and our imaginations but to nature and other complex things that the human race strives to comprehend. I believe that magic is embodied by the things around us that we have yet to understand.

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Lila Hazan plays music in the desert moonlight — and experiences an emotion that transcends understanding.

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