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There are few enough miracles in life, God knows. I think perhaps the circus is one of them. We pay our money, braced for boredom, and are bombarded by noise, bewitched by beauty, awed still one more time by elephants that, yes, are smaller every year. Yet something happens when we enter the big top. If we let it, we will be carried back to hopes and dreams long surrendered: hopes that something wonderful really can happen, dreams that will happen to us, maybe even now. Clowns are the prime miracle-workers in all this. There is a vision in the eyes of clowns that sees the world new-washed in daybreak's dream, the vision of a leaf returned to bud, of pretext gone and darkness only seems. Clowns are pegs on which the circus can be hung, the hooks on which the magic is begun, the eyes of God to find our soul and nudge the people we can be. Clowns tell us -- if we listen -- that something wonderful really can happen, right there, right here, right now. It is easy to forget the clowns -- spots and bangles, rubber nose, feet like ducks, outlandish clothes. It is perhaps more comfortable to miss the clowns, for they mirror ourselves, stripped of pretention, stripped of protection. There with all our naked feelings hanging out. There -- that tear, that laugh, that sigh -- don't hide it, says the clown. Let it come. Let it happen. Let it be. The clown takes the risk first, but leaves the rest of the magic up to us. We can be real, can let others know our pain, our need, our joy, our strength. If we let it, the magic really can happen, right there, right here, right now. And that's the biggest miracle of all, God knows. (c) Maureen Killoran, 2004 --------------------------------------------- Article Index: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 |
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