The Spring Miracle

We have been doing Narrative structures in class, or more accurately we have been studying Game Narrative and Contextualised Play. Naturally we discussed matters of plot and considered the notion that there exist only seven plots. Obviously you mix characters, sub plots, motive, various literary devices and theme, until, regardless of plot, you have created a new story.

I find it difficult to consider my story ideas in terms of theme. It seems to me that my themes are the same. They are all about developing self- identity within the wider social structure. Is this not simply the same theme as life? I read other books and see that they too work with the identity theme, maybe it’s a universal theme. Writers implement various devices to deal with themes. I think of those devices as motifs. In my recent reading, The Land of Decoration and now The Golem; the predominant motif has been miracles.

Spring Time illustrated by AndyArtisan

Just as I had early doubts regarding the existence of Father Christmas, so to, have I long been unconvinced by miracles: such as people returning from the dead, red seas parting and immaculate conceptions (to name but a few). That’s not to say I shouldn't like them to exist; I am particularly fond of the water into wine miracle and find the assumption into heaven one of the most profound and poetic visions. I especially enjoyed assumption when it happened to Remedios the Beauty in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I don’t think it’s a miracle when someone has a near miss, walks away from an awful car accident or happens not to get electrocuted while living in The House of Death.  I consider such things to be remarkable.

As remarkable as the urban Poppy: a paper tissue delicacy, sprouting like a wish among building rubble, crisp packets and a polystyrene cartoon or two. It is a little early for the magic of poppies, but the treasure that is the jewel like beauty of the snowdrop is scattered all about us. My kitchen is ripe with the gold of daffodils and the scent is as heady as any orchids. The weather is wild and unpredictable. 

Last night I was woken from a crazy dream by the most torrential down pour. I left the house beneath a glower of grey black sky and yet now the sun is beaming down upon us and finally there is warmth in this sun. The bird song is brighter, it trills with enthusiasm, the dead bones of the tree are beginning to bulge with the buds of leaves and each day is perceptibly longer and brighter than the previous.

This is the onset of spring. I can smell it. I can feel it in my bones. It is joyous. It is not surprising that the pagans wondered at this magic and revered the death defying Mother Nature, nor that the Christians stole it and wove the motif of resurrection into their own belief system. What is truly remarkable is the timeless predictability of this process: spring follows winter, eternally and yet each time it feels miraculous.