I was walking in the woods after a recent heavy rain, and I came across a pop-up waterfall that got me thinking about enchantment, relationships, and storytelling.
The connection?
I was struck by a deep sense of effortless grounding and centering. This was an entirely different flavor from lounging on my couch, even though both are relaxing. Surrounded by trees and sunlight and birdsong and rushing water changed my inner state—and in a way I can’t fully capture at home, on my own.
This isn’t to say that couch time is bad—far from it—but my nature walk drove home how interdependent the psyche is.
This might sound obvious, but as we go about our business it’s easy to slip into the illusion that what’s in here is totally separate from what’s out there. Sure, out there might make me feel cranky, inspired, etc., but it’s still, somehow, not me.
This is the illusion that who I am is somehow independent from who the world is.
This illusion deadens our perception. It makes our environment feel disenchanted—or as if it were never enchanted in the first place.
Which brings us to storytelling, or more specifically, story structure.
One of my favoritest parts ever of my romance-writing journey is learning about the crafting of well-paced plots, dynamic character arcs, and rich themes. Listed in a textbook, those elements might sound like a snooze, but they’re the ingredients that keep us reading well past bedtime about characters who feel as real as our best friend, filling us with stark longing when we reach The End.
And yet, none of these elements work well in isolation.
You could have the most well-drawn, compelling character, but if they’re sitting around doing jack, that’s a snore.
Your plot could be the story equivalent of dangling from a cliffside by cramping fingertips, but if we don’t care about the character, there’s a good chance the book’s getting DNF’d.
And theme without character or plot is the equivalent of getting bonked over the head with A Very Important Life Lesson. Bleh.
But when all three are skillfully woven? That’s how you craft a story that changes your readers, a story that makes them see themselves and the world differently.
Going back to my nature walk, the idea that I could experience the same flavor of relaxation on my couch as I did beside a burbling brook is akin to a character arc transpiring in a vacuum.
It simply doesn’t work—not believably, anyway.
And the expectation that it can or should leads to things like going on vacation and taking a million pics to “capture the moment” (and this only truly “counting” once we post them on social), instead of, you know, experiencing the moment.
It’s easy to forget, in pursuit of clicks and likes, that what we’re after is connection, and mega corporations like Meta are only too happy to reinforce the illusion that spending time on their platforms is not only a worthy substitute for offline interactions, but somehow better than.
More likes! More “friends”! More more more!
Our psyches, the very stuff of our selfhood, are fundamentally changed by relationships, seen and unseen. I simply cannot get the same effect scrolling through pics of a hiking trail as I would walking on it.
And it’s not merely because walking on the trail is more immersive, but because the trail itself, the trees I’m walking amongst, the air I’m breathing, the sun on my skin, are alive. When I walk, I’m in relationship with those living beings, as they are with me.
And this relationship changes me.
That’s the essence of what Jung called the symbolic life—the idea that meaning isn’t just something we assign, but something we encounter. When we engage with symbols, archetypes, or story structure, we’re acknowledging that life has layers. Fractals of meaning. That the world is alive, and in constant dialogue, if we choose to listen.
Which makes me think of deeply impactful tarot readings…
One of the reasons I use an intuitive method with the cards (shorthand for not relying on conventional card “meanings”) is that it allows my psyche to dialogue with the imagery and numerology of the card in that exact moment, which is, in itself, alive and pregnant with information.
While written card meanings can certainly spark useful insights, like a static photo of a hiking trail, they will never be a substitute for experiencing the card, and yourself, in the moment.
Every walk, every story, every shuffle of the cards is an invitation to participate in something bigger than us. Not to control it, but to meet it.
Because that’s where enchantment lives—not in the concept of connection, but in the living pulse of it.
Have an enchanted New Moon, my friend.
P.S. Speaking of enchantment, have you downloaded my free short story, Falling Phoenix? It’s a magical, angsty, spicy good time featuring none other than Prince Mateu himself. Yum…
