Biology Is Magic with a Timeline

Imagine healing happened in an instant: the wave of a wand, a burst of sparkles, and a cheerful “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” No one would hesitate to call it a miracle. But because the human body performs its transformations slowly, cell by cell and breath by breath, we call it... biology.

Perhaps the difference between magic and process is mostly a matter of timeline.

This week, I underwent surgery to repair four hernias.

Yes, four.

We thought it was three, but apparently my body had one bonus project waiting to be discovered.

There is something surreal about lying in a hospital bed, preparing to hand over consciousness to a team of highly trained professionals. For all the complexity of what was about to happen, my role was remarkably simple: trust them and let go.

Then, as if by magic, I closed my eyes and woke up repaired. Of course, what felt instantaneous to me was anything but simple. While I slept, the surgical team inflated my abdomen like a balloon to create room to work. Tiny incisions were made and, with the help of several robotic hands, mesh was placed and tissues were restored. Beneath my awareness, a remarkable collaboration of science, skill, and trust unfolded. And then the real magic began.

At this very moment, millions of cells are working around the clock to rebuild me. Inflammation is clearing the construction site. Collagen is being laid down. Tissue is knitting together. Strength is returning. And I do not have to direct any of it. My only job is to rest, nourish myself, walk a little, and trust the process. And that, to me, is miraculous.

We often think miracles must be dramatic and instantaneous to count. We imagine something impossible happening in a flash. But perhaps miracles are happening all the time—so gradually that we mistake them for ordinary life.

A wound closes.

A bone mends.

A heart heals.

A person changes.

The wonder is no less extraordinary simply because it unfolds over time.

I like to think of life as an invitation to catch glimmers. We can train our eyes to focus on what is wrong, or we can learn to notice the quiet evidence that something beautiful is taking place. Healing is one of those glimmers.

You are living inside one right now. ✨

Your heart is beating.

Your lungs are breathing.

Your cells are repairing.

Your body is carrying out a symphony of processes far beyond conscious comprehension.

Perhaps the only reason we stop calling it magic is because it happens slowly.

But make no mistake...

This is full-blown bibbidi-bobbidi-boo magic. And I, for one, am in awe.

Apparently, Magic Cannot Be Rushed

A couple of days after surgery, Liz Aday sent me a draft of a song we've been working on called Parton Me. Naturally, I became inspired. And by “became inspired,” I mean I temporarily forgot that I had just undergone abdominal surgery, got on my feet, and started belting out a vocal idea for the bridge.

For a few glorious minutes, I was no longer recovering. I was recording!

Then my body reminded me—rather convincingly—that standing up and singing only days after having four hernias repaired was not actually on the approved recovery plan.

I made myself sick.

Pretty rock and roll of me, though, right?

My body, however, was unimpressed by my commitment to the craft. It reminded me that healing may be miraculous, but it still has that timeline we've been talking about.

Apparently, trusting the process also means resisting the urge to grab the wand and wave it faster.

That is not always easy for me. I love momentum. I love inspiration. I love the feeling of catching an idea while it is alive and following it wherever it wants to go.

But I'm beginning to realize creativity may be another form of magic with a timeline.

Parton Me has been becoming for years, shaped by one idea, one contribution, one revision, and one unexpected burst of inspiration at a time. My bridge idea may have arrived in a flash, but it did not appear out of nowhere. It landed because so much quiet work had already made a place for it.

Healing and creating have their own rhythms. Both ask for patience. Both ask for surrender. Both ask us to believe that progress is still happening, even when it does not look dramatic from the outside.

Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is stop trying to produce.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is rest.

2,000 Reasons to Trust the Process

As if my body wanted to offer a timely reminder, five days after surgery I completed a gentle 19-minute recovery walk and received a milestone from BODi:

2,000 total workouts!

Two thousand times, I have chosen to show up for myself.

Two thousand times, I have trusted that small daily actions can lead to extraordinary change.

Bodies are built that way. Songs are built that way. Lives are built that way.

This badge arrived at exactly the right moment. It reminded me that I am not starting over. I am continuing a lifelong relationship with a body that has carried me through grief, leukemia, surgery, creativity, and growth.

A body that has changed.

A body that has healed.

A body that has kept showing up for me, even when I have occasionally tried to make it record a bridge before it was ready.

If I built strength before, I can build it again.

Not all at once.

Not with a wave of a wand.

But... breath by breath.

Step by step.

Lyric by lyric.

Cell by cell.

Over time.

We can call it magic when it's done, sure. But I'd rather not wait.

The magic is happening right now.