Magic

by: Joan Hitz

“The world is magic,” I said, one afternoon, to a kindergartner at my elementary school. 

“Really?” he asked. 

“Sure,” I told him. “And so are you. You are magical.”

I believe in truth-telling. And that the truth, essentially, is the pure one we’re all born with - the ability to see magic. Truth isn’t the time-weary, disappointment-distorted, bill-paying, “reality” version that manages to crash-land, in some form or other, like an exhausted bird in the laps of our chronological adulthoods. 

(Relative chronology ... that’s another story, for another time. Because most five-year-olds are pretty mature, when it comes to understanding about magic. And adults ... well, sometimes we need some remedial work ...)

So ... the truth: Magic is real. You only need to look for it.

Magic is what makes snow pretty, not a pain. It’s what makes summer seem long. 

The first day of August, I never hear a kid say: ”Well, this summer is gone!”

Huh? There’s half still to go. Some of the best things happen in that second half.  

When I was a kid (chronologically), August was something to look forward to, both for being August, and, for being my birthday month. August third - top of the month, beautiful shining number three. Pool party, friends, hot musical nights ... 

The cricket chorus began in August: scree ... scree ... scree ... the trill of these night singers like a secret musical brook, rolling unseen through the black velvet shadows in the garden.  

Trees were heavy with the darkest green leaves. The sun declared its utter victory over winter.

Ice pops. Beach fries. Blazing pavement. T.V.-watching till 3 a.m., because, there was no school tomorrow. Or the next day or the next or the next or ...  

A u g u s t ...

Unravelling like molasses flowing uphill, August went on and on - magical, deep, without a trace of an ending if you didn’t inject one. 

As children, we knew how to craft that stretched-out, yawning summer bliss: Stare only into the hour just before you. 

That’s children’s magic. And, it’s real. 

We can work this magic still. 

My neighbor, a dedicated teacher, prepares lessons and grades papers, weeknights, and each Sunday, from four p.m. into midnight. 

But she milks Saturdays and Sundays like no one I know, and often resets mine.

I love my work, but I also love the unscheduled freedom of weekends - lingering over coffee, letting life happen, not being bound by “to-do” lists. 

On Sunday mornings, while tending our gardens, I call to my neighbor over the fence. 

“It’s over,” I gripe. “The weekend’s overrrrrrrr.” The Thought of Monday churns my stomach. 

“I-don’t-want-to-heeeeaaaaar-it,” she singsongs back. “It-is-Sunnnnnnnnnnnnday!!!!”

Oh.

Yeah.

Right.

It is ... NOT ... Monday. 

Yet.  

I turn again to my garden, peer down the long magical tunnel of the next-arriving minute. Sixty seconds glitter with what’s before me: a green plant, a spade sparkling with wet-jeweled mud. And suddenly (and it never wasn’t, except for the day-trip my mind just inflicted upon itself), it’s Sunday again. Sweet loooooooong Sunday.

Like August. An entire half a summer rests in this month - a month of magic. So wait, September. (The crickets beseech you.) 

“Yes,” I said to that radiant boy at school that afternoon. “You are magical.

“Just think - once upon a time, you weren’t here. But then you were born and now, you are here. That’s magic.”  

(Is it NOT?)

“And,” I continued, “Just look at our world ...”  

We were in the hall where rectangles of sunlight fall through wide windows onto the floor, creating a golden pathway. The art teacher hangs giant, silver-swirled, origami suns here, to cast their shadows in the bright trail. 

Returning to class, the kids and I travel this sun-and-shadow path that both exists (magic) and does “not” exist (you can’t touch light and shadows).  

As we pass, I flick the suns so their cast shadows dance along the rectangles.   

“See,” I said to that boy, “the world is full of lights and shadows. Flowers that aren’t there, but then they are. Ice cream trucks which show up five minutes into the future. New friends. Round balls that bounce, and birds, and cupcakes, and this school, and me, and you.  

“Before you began school, we didn’t know each other, and now we do. Magic - right?”

“Right!” he said, leaping from shadow to shadow. 

Later on, the sun went down, the floor was dark, the sun-and-shadow path was ... gone. 

Or was it? 

Magical paths, I believe, are always here, and (usually), invisible. And we’re invited to seek and walk them.

There’s a quote: Life is short, so we must move slowly. 

Just like August, a month restored, to its long, rightful self.