I like to think that I believe in magic. Men making ladies disappear and pulling bunnies out of top hats. Especially the bunnies. I had a boyfriend once who would give you a running commentary all the time and completely took all the fun out of it by explaining exactly how it is done. He didn’t believe in magic.
I like mystery, I don’t want to know how that man made that glittery lady in her fancy dress and scary makeup levitate. I don’t want to know how she disappears I just want to revel in the fact that I don’t know. I will not be spending hours and hours making my brain ache by trying to puzzle it out. I want to sit back and hold on to that special feeling that I get when I don’t understand. That feeling that something miraculous has happened right in front of my eyes.
I live for that feeling. Once I came to the realisation that I loved having that feeling and with it came happiness and wonder I started looking for it elsewhere. And suddenly I just couldn’t get away from it. Everywhere I looked I found something new and wondrous and unexplained and that feeling inside of me just grew and grew. How do sparrows fly together in that big, swooping way? No longer did I feel the urge to know I just sat back and watched. How did they build the pyramids? Don’t tell me I don’t want to know. When turtles are born on the beach how do they know which way to run to get to the sea? I have no idea but I will be cheering them on. What was that feeling I had when Paul and I realised his birthday was the day after mine? I have no idea but I felt so undeniably happy in that one moment that science would just take away from the wonder I felt.
A dictionary definition of magic is a mysterious quality of enchantment. Everyday I find something new and wonderful in my life or the world around me. That my friends is enough magic for me.