Most people dream about magic. They wonder if it’s real, and if they’re ever going to come into contact with it. For me, magic is everywhere. I see it in the way the leaves are arranged on the ground come fall, how the dewdrops on a blade of grass are perfect. That magic is in that breeze that comes out of nowhere, that makes the heat of the day a little more bearable. Magic is in that good deed you do because it’s the right thing to do.
People try to come up with scientific explanations for those things, or they say that they aren’t real magic. They think that real magic, if it even exists, is in wizards with pointy blue hats, spells and fairies, witches and warlocks. I don’t think that. I think magic is in miracles, when you believe. Magic is like a seed, it can sprout and take root in one place, but over time it spreads. Magic is how a giant oak tree can grow from a tiny acorn. I used to be one of those people who dreamed of magic, who dreamed of becoming a princess or an enchantress and going on fantastic adventures. Then I took a step back and looked around, and saw magic was in ordinary things, like the first day of summer, that pure joy I experience. Is that other type of magic real, the magic we dream about? I don’t know, but if it is, the whisper of magic will find me when I least expect it.