When I was a little girl, I dreamed of a hidden world full of magic and I know I’m not the only one. But ‘my magic’ was this all consuming idea that one day something magical would happen to me. I prayed to God, wished on a fleeting star, and wrote Santa and the Tooth-fairy letters.
And I believed.
There was magic and I just hadn’t reached the right point in my life. So I waited for a special gift from the magical giving creatures that surely would offer me my adventure and chance to be more then Kristen.
Physiologically, magic was linked to a lot of different things for me. My concept of magic changed with the problems I was having and I just knew all of my troubles would fade when I became a lost princess, a courageous hero, or a wizard -Harry.
Sometimes I believed so hard I thought I saw things where there was nothing. I saw the tooth-fairy fluttering behind the window curtain. My uncle Mike tried to capture the fairy and I remember waiting in the living room as he made quiet the racket. And every year for Christmas I asked for that special bell that only true Santa believers could hear (I got a GameCube). Every time the magic fell through my doubt was only replaced with the idea that I needed to believe harder and my time would come.
But unlike your favorite heroes, my time never came. My magic dispersed into the cracks of my childhood and I grew up. It was a slow process and I didn’t really even notice it was gone until this year.
The holiday season was here again and I felt nothing. This wasn’t the first holiday that had lost its magic touch. The magic had left years ago but I just didn’t notice what was missing.
But this year, fragments of magic seem to appear like a familiar fragrance you just can’t place. It was in the orange and red autumn leaves that drifted to the ground around my son, his eyes large with awe. It was in the summer sun that stayed well past fall, that warmed my shoulders on the long walks across campus. It was in this old, dilapidated house I used to pass everyday on my way to school. Somewhere in those cracked windows a hint of childhood was peering through. It was the smell of fresh cut grass taking me back to playing outside with my dad. In the memories of easier days.
Days before my baby sister turned twenty. When our biggest problems were the amount of time it took to set up the Polly Pocket play sets. Days before I cared for elections and my favorite politician was Padme. Days when the world still continued to turn even when my own beliefs had been shaken. Days that dragged on during endless summers before time was even a fear.
Days. So many magical days. Days that were full of magic I just couldn’t quite see. Magic I couldn’t capture in a jar because it was just so vast. Magic that hasn’t drifted away but instead has settled beneath upturned stones. It takes just one nudge and it’s back. Real magic.
It’s that same magic that lights up a room with laughter. That same magic that whispers from the pages of old dusty books.
I have spent my entire life growing up and in my venture I have forgotten the magic of adulthood. The magic that can be seen through the eyes of a child. So if you need a dose of medicine to cure that case of lost magic, may I suggest you live in the present for just one moment. May I suggest you go outside for just a second and remember what brought you magic. May I suggest you write a letter and remember what it was like to want an envelope with your name on it. May I suggest that you allow life to medicate you with the awareness of your own blessings. And when you find that lost magic, may I just ask that you pass it along to someone who needs it.