Looking for magic

Some coordinates written in the margin, a message, a key.

It’s 23:35 and I’m looking out my bedroom window. It was warm and sunny all day, but as the watch hands grabbed onto the late afternoon hours, fog started to appear. The type that blankets and softens into every nook and cranny. Every crack in the pavement.

It reminds me of wizardry and potions. Of riding your bike home from a friend’s house right before midnight on a weekday. When everything is silent and you’re the only one out. When it feels like you could accidentally run into all kinds of mysteries of the night. Maybe catch a glimpse of something shimmery. Something no one else was supposed to see.

A part of me is always looking for magic. I don’t think I ever really stopped. I’m still that kid, staring up at the stars hoping for a sign, for whispers in the wind. Who likes to believe the ravens gather to discuss something important. And if I listen, like really really listen, I might be able to hear what they’re saying. Maybe I’ll even catch the trees as they hum.

We used to go to the library in elementary school to pick out our own book for reading class. I’ve always loved the library. Not just for the books themselves, but also, and perhaps even more, for the exchange of them. All these stories we get to choose from and borrow home to read under our night light and then return to the shelf again for someone else to find. Another person’s fingerprints and teardrops on the same pages as mine. Traces of folded dog-ears and underlined words.

I remember stumbling over this pretty blue book on one of those library trips and feeling like I had found some sort of treasure. That I had discovered something important that all the others had overlooked. It was Whispering to Witches, or Heksekamp as I know it in Norwegian, by Anna Dale. I can’t recall the storyline, but I vividly remember some of the scenery. Perhaps most importantly, I remember the feeling it gave me: a sparkly, blue-eyed “Everything is magical. Everything is possible”. And I think I’ve been on the lookout for that feeling ever since.¹

The problem with reading and hearing fairy tales and legends and stories with dragons and adventures and spells and flying brooms when you’re a kid, is that you start to think there’s some sort of magic out there that you’ll find someday. That you’ll stumble upon something special, something unusual, something mythical. Some coordinates written in the margin, a message, a key. And it creates this longing in you. Because even though you know none of it is really real, a tiny part still wonders “But what if?” — “And if not, then where did it all come from?”

What I’ve come to believe is that the real magic is in the ‘looking for magic’. That it’s in the paying attention and noticing the subtle details. The mossy stones and creaky branches. The tiny snails and blueberry bushes. The spiderwebs, the dewdrops. Because by looking you’re also opening; to all kinds of possibilities, all kinds of stories. You widen everything. The moment, the imagination, the world.

It’s the ‘looking for magic’ that makes me go on small adventures; walk down a road I’ve never noticed before, rummage through an attic, follow a winding forest trail, explore a vintage shop in the hopes of finding a gem. It’s the ‘looking for magic’ that makes me read the crumbled up piece of paper at the bottom of the shopping cart. What draws me to the box filled with lost postcards. Makes me reach for the dustiest old book. Because I don’t want to miss out on the hidden message, the scribblings in the margin, the golden key. I’d like to open the closet, just in case there’s a whole other world inside.

I recently stumbled upon this Keri Smith quote that I think captures another important aspect:

You are a detective. Your mission is to document and observe the world around you. As if you’ve never seen it before. Take notes. Collect things you find on your travels. Document findings. Notice patterns. Copy. Trace. Make rubbings. Focus on one thing at a time. Record what you are drawn to.

By observing—by looking for magic—you simultaneously rediscover the world. You see that everything is entirely full of wonder, we’ve just gotten so used to it. We’ve gotten used to the butterflies. The rainbows. The honey bees. The bird song. The tiny seeds and how they blossom into flowers or grow up to be humongous trees. We’ve gotten used to the seasons. How the leaves turn red and snow fall from the sky. How water freezes. So much so that we can step on it—twirl around and skate on it.

I think there’s specks of magic everywhere, really, in everything. It’s just not the magic we expected it to be. Or to rephrase: the magic I wanted it to be. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still magic. Just because we’ve gotten used to something doesn’t mean it’s not still ridiculously amazing and wonderful and whimsical and mind-boggling. We might not have flying brooms, but we have airplanes. We might not have magic wands, but we have smart phones. We might not have supernatural potions that turn people into frogs, but we do have medicine.

So I’ll keep looking for magic. Both the real and the unreal. I’ll keep looking amongst the trees to see if there’s a rabbit sitting there waiting for me to follow it. And at the same time I’ll notice how different trees make different sounds in the wind. I’ll keep picking up shiny rocks and pieces of glass at the beach in case they’re part of a long lost treasure. And at the same time I’ll study all the different shells and stones in the sand. I’ll watch the brown leaf sail down the river and imagine there’s a little fairy on it, using it as a boat. And at the same time I’ll watch as the river flows and flows and flows and flows. I’ll look up at the stars and get a wink. I’ll watch the fog creep in and smile.

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1. I’ve been pondering whether or not to read it again as an adult, but I think I’ve concluded with not wanting to ruin my image of it, in case it isn’t as good or enchanting as I remember. I’d rather it live on like this in my memory, even if that means it’s a distorted, inaccurate memory.