There is magic in the air
There is enchantment in the air.
Not the kind of legerdemain that requires a top hat and a rabbit, but rather the kind that whispers in your ear, the scintillating magic of the everyday, that which often goes unnoticed.
It creates, transforms and lifts life to other dimensions, levels of inspiration and joy.
It lives among the roses that climb the side of my house, the tool shed and the fence in the yard. Among these, it is fleeting, lasting only a week or two, but leaving remembrances of glory in the rose hips that withstand the winter’s solitude.
In my mind the roses are female, protected by thorns; sheltering less desired flora that crowd in safety behind the veil of the threat of bloodletting should you try to remove them.
Even this, a simple product of nature is, in its way, miraculous. My driven hands, seeking out weeds, the odd over energetic maple seedling or the knows-no-boundaries lemon balm, cannot reach them when they hide among the roses.
A casual walk through the village, along the creek’s edge, stopping here and there to appreciate a garden, say hello to a friend, chat for a minute or two about nothing in particular is as an incantation in a life often bordered by lists and must do’s.
I am renewed afterwards.
Joy comes too in the soft breeze of a summer morning drifting in my window, a harbinger of diurnal delights.
Magically my sleep-filled eyes are awakened to the possibilities of the day. I am here. I can do, achieve; I can enjoy what comes along and be the person I want or should be. Another day, magically, I’m given another chance.
My cat, sleeping in his spot on the bed, descended from wild predators, loves me, in his cat way, spending hours by my side, seeking affection and giving it back ten times over.
What have I done to deserve this? It must be magic.
It is freeing to take the time to find the magic in the ordinary, the everyday, to contemplate the beauty of the wildflower, the shadow of leaves against a building, a window box overflowing with color, young mothers and their children, a quiet corner in the library, lemonade in an icy glass or curtains billowing in a window before the storm.
And as I wend my way through the days of my life, I find an exquisite enchantment in minutes watching small children discover this world, learning to recognize what we have often overlooked or forgotten.
Small, daisy like flowers pepper my lawn, cut away each week by the mower, but there is a memory of my little grandson, so proud to hand me a daisy, so much excitement, an offering of discovery and love, a delight more powerful than a wizard could conjure.
