HeyJaredLiving a Magical Life with Theodora Goss
Essays, poems, and random thoughts on living a magical life in our contemporary world.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 8
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- Sep 7, 2026
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- Jul 12, 2026
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September Afternoon (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI cannot explain the glory of this world. There are no words adequate, no adjectives that would suffice — beauty, splendor, wonder — none sufficient to make you stop and rejoice, to throw up your hands in prayer and gratitude. No, I cannot explain. All I can do is show you, under gray skies, the last of the summer’s roses bowed down with rain.<a class="image-link image2 is-viewable-img" href
The Fairy Fantasies of George MacDonald (opens the original)
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There is an image that has stayed with me since childhood: a tall woman, almost impossibly tall, taller than the tops of the London houses, with a pale face and masses of black hair that float around her, flying through the night sky underneath a cloud-wreathed moon. Somewhere in her masses of black hair is a child, secure in a nest of hair she has woven for him, holding on to the dark strands as though they were reins. He is a little boy named Diamond, but I often wished it could be me, traveli
The Poet Dreams of Blodeuwedd (opens the original)
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for Francis Ledwidge (1887-1917)Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHe dreamed of her, the woman made of flowers, someplace near Ypres, beneath the bombs. She walked in trenches that were also tombs and like a linnet sang through endless hours of mud and muck and death. Where she would pass, her footprints left a trail of meadow-sweet and yellow broom, and small white marguerite. He smelled them until someone shouted “Gas!” And when night came, she flew above
The Wildflower Garden (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThere is a bee busy in the purple tuft of the knapweed, perfectly happy — like me, actually, hidden among the Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod, sitting and therefore as small as a child, pretending there is nothing beyond this — the forest of knapweed and Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod, that the rest of the world does not exist — just this secret grove of sunshine and steady buzzing, these stalks towering above me arrayed in
The People Who Keep to the Paths (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThere are people in Kensington Gardens who keep to the paths, walking straight, one foot in front of the other, like soldiers, upright, respectable. They are all, I am certain, very good people. I, on the other hand, struck out across the field, under the linden trees, not from any sense of rebellion or non-conformity, no, simply to feel the grass about my ankles and smell, falling from the leafy canopy above, like a scented
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