When I was a kid, I was obsessed with unicorns.
I had this big unicorn book, a coffee table kind of book with shiny pages that felt smooth when I ran my hands over them. Again and again, smoothing over my unicorns. I would pick up the book and smell the pages. It had this new book, magazine-like smell that I couldn’t get enough of. I would pick which unicorn was my favorite. Some days it was the white one on the beach in a place I imagined being Australia, and other days, it was the two unicorns in the field of flowers.
One day, someone told me they were just horses with a horn glued on their heads. I refused to believe this. I would pick up the book and bring it closer to my eyes and inspect. I couldn’t see any evidence of forgery. They must be real.
When I was seven, I had a diary with a picture of unicorn on the front. I put a felt sticker of a unicorn on the front, and inside were seven unicorns stamped in pink ink. I opened the diary recently to see that it said: I ripped out the pages before these because I wrote dumb things. That was in 1985. I looked closely, and indeed there were frayed edges like the pages had been yanked out! What had I said?
Those pages are floating in the Garbage Can of Dumb Things somewhere in 1985. In 2012, they would be in the Stream of Profound Things.
I would look back at them and say: How fantastic! Look what I wrote when I was a kid. Look how thoughtful I was. Or, look how much pain I was in. Whatever I had written, I would look back upon it with awe and fascination and would use it as science and fact. It would help me uncover the mystery of why I was the way I was, and it would give me material for my book. But I threw those parts of my life away. The “dumb parts.”
How may dumb parts of my life have I thrown away altogether? How many have you? What could I have said that I thought was so dumb?
When my father died, I refused to cry. Maybe I wrote that I felt sad, and then regretted it so I ripped it out? Being vulnerable was never easy for me. I thought it was dumb to show how I felt. That it meant I was weak.
I will hunt for my old pages. I will search for those words.
The basis of the unicorn myth perhaps arose because, at one point, people literally hunted for them. They searched in field and forests, calling out in the dark to these fantastical creatures. It was believed that it really existed somewhere at the edge of the known earth. Thus the mythologizing began.
So the hunt for the unicorn was much like my hunt for my pages. I am sure they existed. I believe that they exist somewhere at the edge of the known earth, and if I call to my ripped out pages in the dark edge of a forest, they will return. They will enter my sleeping mind, a unicorn made real by determination, and when I wake, they will be there again like they never left. There will be no gaps in my diary, no holes in my memory, no unknown unicorns.
What is legend? What turns into memory? Which pages have you ripped out of your life thinking they didn’t deserve to exist? Which unicorns?
I wish I knew what happened to that beloved unicorn book. If I close my eyes I can still feel how smooth those pages were. It’s funny which things our memories choose to hold onto: which sensations, which pages, which books, which people. Sometimes, I would take those pages and rub them against my legs or my face like a talisman. I would let their magic wear off on me like the cold end of a rabbit’s foot or a lucky penny. The pages were always cool, as if they lived in a separate magical world. No matter what the weather was in my room, the pages stayed cold as snow.
I stopped believing in unicorns, and I gave the book away. Or maybe I threw it away in The Garbage Can of Dumb Things. I stopped believing that things would work out for me, that good things would last, and that unicorns were a real part of the world.
A real part of the world.
Real parts of the world were: my father’s death, we were moving away from New Jersey, I knew how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism (I would tell you this upon first meeting you and proceed to spell it), I had a red Huffy bike.
Not real parts of the world were: my father’s body, unicorns.
I couldn’t remember what the book was called for the life of me until today. What I could remember was how it smelled and which unicorn was on which page. So today I googled Unicorn coffee table book from the 1980s, and what do you know? There it was! My beloved book. Unicorns I Have Known.
I am thinking back on all the unicorns I have known.
All of the magic I have witnessed and then denied its very existence. All of the miracles I have forgotten about or simply ripped out of my life like the pages of a diary, as if they were irrelevant or symptoms of stupidly. Symptoms of believing in magic.
How dare I believe in magic? I thought. Look where it gets you, you stupid Unicorn, I yelled.
I would like to say I believe in magic again nowadays.
I am getting closer to that truth. I am still out here wearing a headlamp, searching for unicorns after having given up on them for years. The thing is, about these unicorns, about this kind of magic, it will wait.
It will be there to greet you with such a powerful surge of light that you will need take off your headlamp and sit down under a tree as you watch the light spill across the forest of your life like it had been there all along.
Jennifer Pastiloff was recently featured on Good Morning America. She is a yoga teacher, writer, and advocate for children with special needs based in L.A. She is also the creator of Manifestation Yoga® and leads retreats and workshops all over the world. Jennifer is currently writing a book and has a popular daily blog called Manifestation Station. Find her on Facebook and Twitter and take one of her yoga classes online at Yogis Anonymous.
Jen will be leading a Manifestation Yoga® weekend retreat at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health in the Berkshires, Massachusetts Feb 1-3, 2013.
*Photo by ~Brenda-Starr~.