At what point do we give up on magic?
When do we let the idea of the fantastic, the deus ex machina, the simply whimsical die?
Perhaps it is not a quick death, but instead a series of small wounds. Death by a thousand cuts. The day we pick up Dostoyevsky in favor of L’Engle. The night the dark finally becomes peaceful, no longer filled with monsters. The golden hours once spent on make believe instead devoted to gossip, then to schoolwork, then idled away in a cubicle.
I feel sometimes I spend all my time chasing old magic and catching only glimpses. Talking beasts and enchanted wardrobes. Powerful rings and tesseracts. I bring back what I can.
And then I pay it forward.
Thirty pink little foxes all in a row. A skulk of happy little faces made of yarn and fleece. A promise of warmth and safety and whimsy for one who has not yet lost their magic to grown-up things.
Want to make your own? Find the pattern by Galia and Rina Osmo on Etsy here.
Handcrafting a Life 