Tell Me There Is No Magic

Tell me there is no magic, and I will smile and tell you that I might have believed you once upon a time.

I might have believed you if long after my grandmother passed I hadn't picked up the scent of her perfume in my bedroom, day after day for months.

I could have been suspicious of enchantment, in the days before I learned to love stories and luxuriate in the company of books, the sorcery of words spilling across uncountable pages.

The idea of magic may have seemed ridiculous if I hadn't born witness to a few tiny seeds and a meagre amout of soil and water, producing the most magnificent oasis of food and medicine and breathtaking, flowering beauty.

Perhaps before I noticed the stars echoed in flowers and fruit, I would have agreed with you. Before I wandered through the forest listening to the voices of the trees, and climbed the valley hills and lingered in the dry scrub desert. I might have agreed if I hadn't lost myself following a trail of strange, muddy mushrooms.

There were times during the greatest heartaches, the harshest losses, and those moments when I called out for help and none came, that I might have whispered there is no magic. 

But I don't believe that is true.

There has been much magic of late.

An old friend who faded into the distance, answered a call to return to the bonfire nights that only a summer evening can offer up.  After having missed out on her company for nearly two years, she will be rejoining our horde of wild women around the flames this weekend.

The land is offering up raspberries, kale, and fat onions sweet enough to eat as if they were apples.  Enjoying meals right out of the garden is an immensely satisfying sort of witchery. And the land beyond my garden gate has given so many charms. Yarrow for healing and divination. Goldenrod for tea and to attract gold, of course. Cinquefoil for luck, protection, love, and so much more.

Funny little fascinations happen daily, it seems.  The perfect song on the radio - exactly what I needed to hear.  A call from a friend I was just thinking of at that very moment.  My intuition hitting on a few things I shouldn't have known. Grabbing something on my way out the door and wondering why, because I couldn't possibly need it - and then, naturally, an hour later needing it.

And then today, there was magic in my mailbox.  An old-fashioned letter - the kind that is hand written (and illustrated!)  And not just any old letter, but one packed full of woven charms, natural treasures, and bewitching words that took me someplace else entirely.

We are walking into the heat scorched arms of summer this weekend, and as some of us keep our heads toward the earth, watching for signs and faerie rings, others are looking skyward again to that opulent display of rocket-fuelled magic.

Tell me there is no magic, or that these enchanting moments are not evidence of real magic. I will simply smile and say...

"I might have believed you, once upon a time."