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“Magic isn’t real.” That’s what everyone says.
Well maybe they should tell that to the girl sitting over there. Because to her, the world itself is magic. That flower blooming, despite the past month being filled with snow. That B+ when she thought she was going to fail.
“Don’t you know that old magic is just modern science?” I try telling her.
“I know that,” she responds. “But look over there. Don’t you see it?” I don’t say anything. “That doorbell over there. It may not look or sound magical, but every time it chimes out, it puts a feeling into someone’s heart. Maybe it’s excitement, maybe it’s dread, maybe it’s curiosity, but it’s always just a little bit different, and there’s a certain magic in being able to give people feelings with such a simple machine.”
I hesitate. I see what she’s trying to say, but I still don’t think she gets it. “But that’s not really magic, is it? That’s just simple mechanics.”
“Maybe so, but who’s to say those ‘simple mechanics’ aren’t just the result of people trying to make this magic tangible? I mean, look at that touchscreen computer right here. Even just 20 years ago, that was only stuff of far-off sci-fic, not realism. All we’ve done is taken that magic that’s in our heads and made it a little bit of our reality.”
I grumble for a moment, before finally thinking of the perfect challenge for her. “I bet you can’t find magic in every single person you see in a day.”
“Maybe I can’t,” she ceded. “But I bet I can try.”
I sit back in my chair, intrigued. How could I not be, after such a declaration? “Let’s see it then.”
“What about that kid? They have such a clear aversion to touch, how could their life possible be magical without being able to touch anyone around them?” We’re in a café now, sitting at a booth nestled between a window and the corner.
“I wouldn’t say that,” she argues. “Look at how everyone around them is acting though. They make sure to include them in their games without making them touch anyone. And the adults around them have changed too, making sure no one comes near them if they don’t like it and adapting their activities so as not to exclude them. I might argue that’s the most magical thing we’ve seen all day.”
I look up to see two friends talking about their latest Krav Maga competition. An idea comes to my mind. “What about that?” I ask, nodding over to where they stand waiting at the counter. “It started out as a military fighting system, you can’t possibly believe that has magic in it too, can you?”
She considers this for a moment before disagreeing. “Maybe its origins are, but have you ever actually seen it? The control some people have over their bodies and the things they’re able to do with them look pretty unreal to me. And some might call that the definition of magic.” The look she gives me seems almost pointed.
I’m stumped, trying to find something that she can’t explain away with simple wishful thinking. “What about all that litter on the ground? I’d hardly call that magical.”
“Well, no, you’re right about that. But the fact that we consider nature so magical in and of itself that we created words—so many words—to describe not only it, but anything that taints it as well. That shows how powerful the simple magic of nature is, I would think.”
I fumble for a moment, grasping at straws. I finally give up, finally understanding what she means now. Until it hits me, and I am saddened again. How could she possibly find a way to make this pretty? “Well, what about the people that are hungry and dying of disease? How could you ever find magic in that?”
That one makes her think. “I guess,” she begins, “I guess the real magic of it is that despite it being a constant in the world, it is also a constant that there will be people to help them and care for them. What’s not magical about love?”
I glance around her, suddenly seeing it all around me. That vendor selling his goods a block down has imbued his hot dogs with magic, immediately raising the mood of everyone around him. That runner on the TV has just finished her race, and even though she’s on her knees, I can see the accomplishment working its magic on her, pouring out of her heaving mouth, knowing that she’ll be walking a little taller from now on. Even that old, ragged sweatband on the ground carries its own form of magic, the magic of being used and treasured for so long that it could no longer hold itself together.
I’m not sure how I’ve never seen it before, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look away now. Every little thing, action, object, little twitch of a person’s hand, reaching out to help, carries with it its own signature form of magic. I look around in amazement, astonished that no one is stuck still, awestruck, like I am. It’s everywhere, floating in the air and in food and in the small smile one gives their loved ones, and I’m not sure if it was always here or if we were all just too blind to notice it. Or maybe it’s not there at all, and I’m just a romantic.
“Magic isn’t real.” That’s what everyone says.
“Maybe not,” we say back. “But we’re willing to make it real.”