On Enchantment

Thursday, 18 September 2008.

---

The world is full of magic. Anyone who knows me also knows that this is the small piece of the world I cling to and love: while people make the world more and more ordinary, the world itself fights back by making its magic more and more subtle in defense—the ones who cherish and love the magic become the only ones who see it’s influence.

I found such a place where the old magic of the world was still evident if you kept a watchful eye. It was a small meadow. I knew it was enchanted, because if I looked at it from its eastern border, it was a field of green flecked with yellow; however, if I looked at it from the western side, it was smattered with pink and purple instead.

I suppose that this meadow watched the sunrise and the sunset day after day and decade after decade with longing, wishing to be as beautiful as the sky. It dreamed and dreamed so much that, eventually, its dreams became manifest—it reflected the colors that it so loved. And so the enchantment that sprang from its desire remains to this day.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be as fervent as the meadow.