The Magic of Everything

It was when we were 100 miles away, in the holy, magical space of Ojai. The trees are as tall as the sky, the roots gnarled, opening up the earth. It was across from a park, where we took the kids who slid on slides, laughter in the background and sandwiches unwrapped as families shared a lazy meal with nowhere to go. It was camping in the mountains of New Hampshire, jumping off rocks with mica. We peeled the layers of silver as if they were tiny treasures only found in the rush of a cold stream. The rocks were bathed in fresh air, the water cold as ice. The laughter of children I barely remember loving, but I once did. The magic of it all. It was the starry nights when all I could see was dots. Not blurred, smokey and elusive as they are in the city now. It was the chasing of flames in the camp fire, the man who threw a wine bottle in the center and we watched it melt. It was the steps up to a clear view, a mountain horizon indescribable. Each step, I hated. Breathless, I had to sit down. The promise to myself I never would have to hike again. It was the times I collected books because I was afraid I would run out. The library’s dusty rows, the basement where we watched old movies of Charlie Chaplin, black and white images. It was the forest roads that I knew like the back of my hand as I rode my bike. Shorts and tank top sticking to me from the humidity. Passing rows of corn and the local farm stand. It was the drive to California, the car not working. Reading Archie comic books in the middle of a dusty nowhere. Exploring caves, ghost towns, dreaming of an air-conditioned hotel room that we got after a month on the road. Simply because I got sick. It was Death Valley where we camped, no other living person around. In the middle of the night, a coyote called and I wandered away. My mother waking up at just the right time to bring me back in my sleeping state. Would I have been lost forever if she didn’t hear me? It was the trips to Tennessee, swimming in a muddy hole, jumping from swings over the flowing river afraid of moccasin snakes. It was going to Suriname, sleeping on a wooden floor in an old barn with 12 other girls. The rafters cracked and we could see the boys on the other side. It was the banana leaves, tarantulas, the lizards and the alligator we ate for dinner. It was the plane ride to California, knowing I found home. It was the sweep of my guazy skirt as I crossed the room and found the chocolate eyes that would be my forever. It was the relentless pursuit of finding me, learning to love myself as much as my books and the trees. It was when I learned I was a tree, able to blow with the wind, with hurt, and still stand strong. It was the birth of my babies, tucking them into the crook of my shoulder where they fit perfectly. It is in the rock music of the 80’s that I get to dance to naked in the bathroom, since my kids are grown and gone. It’s the stale, quiet room while we wait in an isolated hall for him to get his lung biopsy, knowing the future is changing. It’s sitting out in my yard, looking at my trees that aren’t really mine, sipping my coffee, knowing that I am here and that I found God. Magic all around me, forever.