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Enchantment

The world is full of magic patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.  W.B.Yeats

Life’s enchanted cup sparkles near the brim.  Lord Byron

I saw partridge tracks this morning pressed into the snowy crust on Joy Center’s driveway, and the paw prints of a single fox, and the tiny trail of a mouse or vole scittered across the walkway.  Even though events at Joy Center have been postponed for a while, it felt as though our beloved cottage-sanctuary was being cared for by the animal friends who feel safe in the woods that surround it.  In the years before I dreamed Joy Center into being, even then, I called that piece of property Fairy Land and felt a pull to its mossy and pine needle carpet, its balsams and pines, and the raspberry bushes along the ridge.  And when I breathe deeply enough and allow myself to be immersed in the moment, maybe on a ski or a hike or an amble in nature, maybe in a group of people sharing from their hearts, maybe alone writing or reading or stretching in yoga, maybe at Joy Center, when I’m really present, the whole of the world can feel enchanted, a fairy land shimmering with light.  In this time of self-distancing, of physical isolation, of fear that is palpable if you choose to taste it, I don’t want to lose this ability to see the world through eyes that are enchanted.

Several times a week, I listen to the podcast series, Beyond the Ordinary, hosted by John Burgos. A few days ago, an intuitive guest was sharing a prayer for our planet, one she had written with the help of her nonphysical guides and angels — and someone else, Walt Disney. That’s right, Walt Disney had come to her with a strong message stating that we need our enchantment now, more than ever.  I have to say, as surprising as it was to consider Walt Disney as a guide for us at this time, I found comfort in the notion.  It brought me back to childhood Sunday evenings, our whole family hunkered together in our rumpus room, bowls of popcorn or cereal in hand, watching as our black and white TV suddenly burst alive with fairy dust and magical-talking animals and a wise mustachioed man introducing us to The Wonderful World of Disney.  I don’t want to forget that I have a choice, that I can follow Walt Disney’s lead, that I can open my eyes to the enchantment that surrounds me, that is within me, even now, especially now, during this challenging time.

I don’t want to push aside magical moments, moments that have the power to transform if I allow them to soak in deeply.  During my eight-day visit with kids and grandkids in Idaho in early March, I had the honor to spend time alone with each of the four grandkids, as well as time embracing the hustle the bustle the glorious chaos of the whole buoyant bunch. Magical moments were bountiful, with all four beloved little ones, and now, three weeks later, I’m remembering a particular twenty minutes of enchantment I spent with my almost-three-year-old  granddaughter, a blond-haired blue-eyed elfin.  She’s the one who never babbled, not exactly, before finding her way to exceptional full English-language sentences.  Instead, as a baby and toddler, she chortled and warbled in a melodic bird-like call.  It was something to behold.  And somehow, this granddaughter, who speaks so clearly, so fluently, began this chortling during my recent visit.  And I began to chortle back to her.  And we proceeded to communicate in this language that had inflection and melody and something that felt like meaning just beyond my adult comprehension.  I wondered whether we might be speaking in the language of fairies. At any rate, it felt profound and fun, and then it was over, and we were back to the everyday, ordering green smoothies at the local juice bar and chatting about my very dirty car back in Michigan.

I know I can focus on what has the potential to scare me — and there is much in the news to weigh a person down — or I can focus on what delights me.  For years, Cam and I have consistently fed the birds from a backyard feeder, and, early this winter, the deer joined the finches, the chickadees, the red and gray squirrels in munching on sunflower seeds.  First it was a mother and her twin fawns, and then a another mother and fawn.  We began scattering the seeds on the ground.  And now, it is a tribe, at least twice a day, that fill up our back yard with their antics.  We know many of them personally.  There is the young injured buck with the black mop of fur on his head, the doe with the fur scraped off her back, several mothers and fawns.  When the evening light shines on them, they become ablaze and the scene is our own version of The Wonderful World of Disney.

So I’m hunkering in during this time of self-isolation, eating well, nourishing body and soul as best I can, but I’m not closing myself off, from the kids and grandkids on FaceTime and phone, from the neighbors six feet away as we walk the streets by our homes, from family and friends who e-mail and text often and thoughtfully, from strangers I hold dear in my heart, from the deer in the backyard and the first sprigs of crocus breaking through snow, from the enchantment that is present in each and every moment if I breathe deeply enough and open to its magic.

 

My friend Gala on the bike path in Marquette, March 2020

Our deer friends helping themselves to bird feed at our backyard March 2020

A snowman I came upon in the woods at Al Quaal, Ishpeming, Michigan, March 2020

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