We are lucky to be here today: to be in a safe space when there is so much chaos out there in the world, to have the privilege of making time to dive into magic and awe. I also feel very lucky that all of you are here today, and that we are launching Cosmosis in the beautiful church of Ruigoord, a place known as “a cosmic leak.” This is a place of new stories. Stories of wonder, magic, and making the impossible possible. It is also a place where spirits linger. Even last night, you might still smell it: an all-night party to celebrate the gnomes was held here.

It is a magical place, but also one that has its struggles, struggles we see everywhere. You might have noticed the contrast on your way here: the oil tanks and windmills, and then, suddenly, this green oasis of creativity and joy. For me, it feels like a place of resistance against the forces of capitalism: a struggle I see in so many places: the exploitative, gray, harsh forces of late-stage capitalism versus the squishy, unpredictable, weird, and dreamy side of humans.

But who knows? Maybe this place is more like the mushrooms of Chernobyl: mushrooms that sprouted and thrived because of their harsh, nuclear environment. Perhaps Ruigoord is funky and magical because of its extreme environment, too.

And just like those mushrooms, I’ve been feeling a reaction bubbling up inside of me, something that’s been growing and rooting underneath the soil. A reaction to the harsh environment in which I find myself. What I feel building up inside me is a strong, enthusiastic urge to become a wizard. I want to practice magic and go out into the woods dressed as a wizard. I know that sounds funny, but I am dead serious.

When I say I want to become a wizard, when I say I want to practice magic, I don’t mean it in the hocus-pocus way we understand these words now. I mean it in the root of these words. Magic comes from a group of Persian priests called the Magi, who wished to understand the unknown. And wizard literally means “wise-ard”, a wise person. That is the core of it: I want to become wise.

The question forms: what does it mean to be wise in this day and age? What I feel so strongly, and I’m sure many of you do too, is that we can’t continue the way we are going. I think we have to start looking beyond our current main mode of acquiring wisdom, which is the scientific way. It is a very valid way of acquiring knowledge through testing, observation, and conclusion. But it is not the only way. May I present to you the way of wizardry.

The scientific way of studying a river would be like dissecting it, taking out a bucket of water, and analyzing its contents. Important to know, but very different knowledge than the magic approach, which would be jumping into the river, feeling the temperature of the water, and seeing where the strong current takes you.

It’s the contrast between approaching the world like an evil lord, who sees the world as some kind of machine that can be controlled and manipulated, versus being a friendly forest wizard. This wizard knows that all flourishing is mutual. He sets out a long table in the woods, inviting all beings, trees, squirrels, roly-polies, stones, and humans, to a long chat about how we might co-exist together.

My first encounter with such a conversation was two years ago near the woods of Breda. I had quite a magical tool with me: a contact microphone, which consists of a copper plate and quartz, transforming vibrations into electricity. Using this device, I was hoping to listen to the creaking of wood. But as I placed the mic on a tree, it started to rain. It was the first downpour in months. I heard the tree formulate a response: tiny streams of water were audible below the bark as the tree started to drink. I went through the woods from tree to tree, listening to all the different ways they drank.

As a wizard, I think you are a bridge between the human and the more-than-human world. These days, I do so by talking to the crows. Not necessarily to have them understand what I say, but more so that they get used to the sound of my voice, as I get acquainted with theirs. Being this kind of bridge means dissolving my strict boundaries as a human and trying out different modes of consciousness. It’s a bit like those ants taken over by cordyceps, a fungus that takes control of an ant’s muscles to make it do precise things for the fungus. Creepy, right? But to that, I’d like to say: is that not already me? I contain more microbes than human cells. How much of me is human? How much of me is my gut biome making decisions for me? Is there even such a thing as “me”?

The first time I felt my boundaries as an individual being questioned was in a lake in Scotland. I had a long, warm day of hiking behind me. My friend and I set up camp at the edge of the forest. Inside this forest, we found a clearing with a lake. I laid down in the lake, and it felt as if the water, air, and my skin were all the same temperature. Laying on my back, looking through the canopy above, it felt as if I was floating. Playfully, I started moving my arms, making ripples in the water. These ripples traveled outward, meeting the edge of the lake and bouncing back. The wind also picked up and started to make ripples. Suddenly, the boundaries dissolved between who was moving whom. Was I moving to make ripples? Or were the ripples moving me?

Both my encounter with this lake and the conversation with the trees felt special. If I had to give it a word, that word would be “re-enchanting.” And it’s there, where the non-scientific ways of acquiring wisdom lie: wisdom through the senses, feelings, relationships, and care. I think these kinds of wisdom are very much needed right now. I think we’ve gotten a little too lost in our scientific ways, and the world is yearning for us to communicate with it in different, non-rational ways. We need a return to the soil, a grounding, and a tuning in so that we can draw from all these worlds to mend them. Because as the alchemist would say: the world is not fixed; it’s squishy, it can be steered, especially in times of chaos. All of this is a spell, a story we’ve chosen. And we can choose to tell a different story!

And for that, we will need to alchemize all the potential energy of this transition phase we are in. That means tuning into the change, feeling the grief, and then daring to dream up a different future and steer our lives away from the bleak probable outcomes and toward the possible.

That is the kind of wizardry I want to practice. And the word “practice” here is important because I don’t think becoming a wizard is like a title you earn. It’s more like a verb: wizarding. A painter uses pigment, a musician uses sound. And a magician, as David Abram pointed out in this interview, uses perception: altering your senses and your experience of reality. The way we see the world is shaped by the stories and visions we hold. These perspectives influence how we interact with reality, and in turn, our actions can change the world around us.

You know, I struggle a lot with what people think of me. There have been periods where I’ve pushed away the parts of me that are so interested in all of this. And even now, making a pledge for magic makes me feel quite terrified and naked.

I’m reminded of a childhood memory, where I sang karaoke with a Coke bottle the whole night. It was maybe the first party I ever attended. Leaving the party, I found out that the other kids had made fun of me. And now, it feels like there is a bit of a curse on me. it’s a little voice in my head that says: Don’t show your true colors, don’t get too into it, because you might not know it, but everyone thinks you’re weird, that there’s something wrong with you.

Reading about magic showed me the power of curses and the collective. Back in the Middle Ages, it didn’t really matter if a curse was real or not. What mattered was if your community believed you were cursed. Because if that was the case, they wouldn’t want to interact with you, and thus, the curse became a very real and dangerous thing.

By taking an oath to become a wizard, I want to start breaking two curses:

The first curse I’m breaking is for little Paul. By letting him stop hiding, and embracing his authentic self, a doorway opens. It creates space for people to connect with a truer version of him.

The second curse is the taboo on magic. Because wizardry deserves to be accepted. And not just accepted, but celebrated. Especially now.

So… that being said, let’s become a wizard and let’s break some curses!