by Laura Crum
Yes,
more stories about magic. It seems that the more I open my eyes to it, the more
I see. Magic everywhere. Is it all in my mind? Perhaps. As Albus Dumbledore
said, “But why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
So the other day I was floating in
our little pond. I have written about the pond before and some of you may
remember. Andy and I built it together—we chose every stone, we supervised
every moment of the construction. And we filled it with water together and
played in it together and planted the water plants together. We battled the
algae together. Since Andy died the pond has been a huge comfort to me. Along
with my son, our animals, the garden, and a few very good friends, the pond has
been one of the biggest comforts in my life.
I
sit by the pond and watch the light change in the reflections and ripples, I
pour a cocktail for myself and for Andy in the evening and sit by the water and
toast him and us—just as we used to do together. I talk to him and I feel that
he talks to me.
On warm days I take a dip and I
float in the pond for hours at a time—watching the clouds in the sky, watching
the water lilies open their blossoms—pink and creamy yellow and white—and
watching the dragonflies. Floating on the water always soothes me—no matter how
sad I am in that moment. And watching the dragonflies comforts me.
Our little pond attracts all kinds
of life. Frogs and lizards and birds and bats…and dragonflies. I have written
before of the amazing dragonfly life cycle, and we have observed this first
hand. From the creatures mating, and laying eggs on the water, to the
underwater nymphs, which look like beetles, to seeing these same nymphs crawl
out of the water and transform into dragonflies—within about an hour. It really
is amazing to watch the once-underwater-being fly away into the sky on wings of
coppery translucency—now a creature of the air. It has always seemed to me to
be a clear paradigm for our earthly lives. And the other day I got another lesson
from the dragonfly.
To
understand this, you may need to understand that dragonflies have always been a
particular symbol here. Andy liked them—he drew them on his bike jacket, we
have images of them everywhere on the property. We were all delighted when
dragonflies came to our new pond last summer. One dragonfly—a bright red
one—was the most common here. Andy looked it up and said he thought it was
called a “flame skimmer.” (Dragonflies seem to have the most wonderful
names—flame skimmer, pond hawk, blue darter…etc)
The
male flame skimmer is a brilliant scarlet red; the female, as is so sadly
common in nature, is a duller orange-y brown. The males swoop above the pond
and perch on nearby branches overlooking the water—defending their territory
and mating with the females. They are lovely vivid creatures, easy to spot as
they skim through the air. But…
When
the dragonfly perches on a branch of the apple tree, as he often does, he is
very hard to spot. His slender three inch long body just looks like a reddish
twig. If, however, you, like me, have spent hours by this particular pond, you
know exactly where to look for him, and your eyes are accustomed to sorting him
out. And thus I can glance at the apple tree twenty feet away and see a red
dragonfly perched on the branch overlooking the water.
I
didn’t realize how much familiarity aids me when it comes to doing this, until
the other day when a friend was here. I said something idly about the
dragonfly, and she said, “What dragonfly?”
It
did not matter how hard I tried to point him out, she could not see him. In the
end she laughed and said, “I don’t believe you. There’s no dragonfly there.”
So
I got up and walked over to the branch. The dragonfly flew away at my approach,
and then, of course, she could see him.
“Oh,”
she said. “He WAS there all along.”
And
in that moment I kind of got it.
If
you teach yourself to see magic—by looking for it and spending time in magical
places just being observant—you will learn to see it. And you will find that others
can’t see it. They haven’t taught themselves how. That doesn’t mean the magic
isn’t real. Just like the perching dragonfly, it’s real all right. But not
something you can see unless you learn how.
The
thing is—anyone can learn how. Spotting a perching dragonfly is available to
all. You just have to spend the time, you have to pay attention, you can’t be
ceaselessly distracting yourself with phones and computers and TVs and social
events…etc. You have to be willing to sit quietly by the water watching
dragonflies. For a good long while. And you will learn to spot them when they
are sitting still. In time it comes to you quickly and easily to spot them; it
is as natural as breathing.
You
will be able to see what others insist is not there. This, I think, is what
magic is really like.
And
then again, maybe magic is like my chicks.
You
see, if you know about chickens you know that there are things that they do and
don’t do. Sort of like horses or dogs or cats. But once in awhile they’ll do
something that you would say that they definitely DON’T do (again like horses
or dogs or cats—in fact like the cat who defended the little boy from an
attacking dog—in that video that I think everyone I know has seen). Is this
magic?
People
who know about chickens know that when a hen goes broody on a clutch of eggs,
it takes about three weeks for the eggs to hatch. Depending on how good of a
“sitter” the hen is, you will get a more (or less) complete hatching of the
eggs (if they are all fertile). The eggs normally hatch in a two day window,
even if they were (as they usually are) laid over a two week or more period.
The chicks actually talk to each other and the hen (by peeping in the egg) as
they are getting ready to hatch. And then, over 48 hours or so, all that can
manage to hatch do so. Not all chicks make it out. Some are too weak to hatch,
some aren’t made right. But after about two days the hen will normally take
what brood she has away from the nest and seek food and water for the chicks,
knowing that the remaining eggs won’t hatch. That’s what chickens do. Except
when they don’t.
So
what happens when they don’t? Maybe magic?
I
had a hen who was sitting on a clutch of eggs that had been layed rather
piecemeal—by several hens. The sitting hen eventually hatched one chick. It was
bright and lively, but days passed and there were no other chicks. My friend
Wally—who knows a lot about chickens—told me to throw the rest of the eggs
out—they wouldn’t hatch. But the hen continued to sit on the eggs. She mothered
the one chick she had, but she also kept sitting. I put food and water near the
nest and left her alone.
A
week after the first chick, a second chick hatched. And still the hen continued
to sit on the eggs. Wally and several other chicken owning friends were sure I
should throw the rest of the eggs out and let the hen get on with raising her
two chicks. But I kept food and water by the nest and left her alone.
A
week later a third chick hatched—and still the hen sat. And sure enough, a week
later a fourth chick hatched. After that the hen abandoned the two remaining
eggs—so I threw them out. And this hen now has a healthy little family of four
chicks—all of whom were born a week apart—so that the oldest one is a month
older than his youngest sibling.
To
those who know nothing about chickens, this might not seem much like magic or a
miracle. But Andy and I kept banties out here the whole seventeen years we were
together, and no hen has ever done anything like this. It is something I would
have adamantly assured you would NOT happen. But it did.
And
so perhaps many other things that people will assure you “cannot” happen can
also possibly happen. When the time is right. Maybe magic is like this? You
just pay attention to the signs and keep an open mind and suddenly something
miraculous happens.
Finally,
maybe magic is sometimes very simple and ordinary. Like watching a water lily
open or close. The water lilies are very lovely—and they open and close their
pointed buds in a short period of time. One evening I was sitting by the pond
with a young friend. We were drinking whisky and soda and talking about life in
the agricultural world, but we were also sitting quietly watching the
water—watching the water lilies, watching the dragonflies. And after a particular
quiet moment this young man turned to me with a big smile on his face.
He
pointed at the most spectacular of the water lilies, a biggish peach pink
blossom with a crown-like shape, and I saw that it was closed. “I watched it
close,” he said. “Watched it go from open to closed. I’ve never seen that
before.”
I
could tell that he felt that he’d seen something magical—and I agree with him.
But the thing is—such magic is readily available. Ordinary magic. Found simply
by sitting still and paying attention. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. Watching
the evening light on the pond.
Maybe magic is like that?
