Twenty-five years ago, I spent a morning in winter chainsawing two cubic metres of logs into half-metre lengths, throwing each one as near to my garage as possible and then stacking them inside.
I then spent much of the late afternoon working the garden behind my workshop. When it started to get gloomy, I stopped and sat down, well wrapped up, feeling comfortably tired and warm, despite it being quite cold. With a large mug of hot tea in my hands resting on my lap, I sat still, with my green wellington booted legs crossed, just gazing.
A small bird appeared at the bottom of the garden. I couldn’t see what it was, but bit by bit, it flitted here and there, coming closer. I remained motionless and followed its progress as it came even closer. Then with a final flit, very unexpectedly, a Robin landed and remained there - on the toe of my wellington boot! Can you believe it?!
I slowly lowered my eyes, he tilted his head up, our eyes met, and he flitted away. That will never happen again, so I was very grateful for the experience.
For me, such magical moments get permanently etched into my memory.
Wonderful, but it reads more like a wonderful day rather than a wonderful ‘moment’
Cue Lou Reed, Perfect Day.
Sadly, that meaning of ‘wonder’ seems to have largely disappeared from use. In aesthetic terms I think it’s a sort of being suspended in the moment and therefore has some similarities to the experience of the sublime, but is more intimate, less grandiose, rather than being gob smacking.
When 5 years old I found a folded paper aeroplane in the front garden. Took it to Mum and asked how it was made. She sat with me in front of an open window and opened it up on a wide stone sunlit windowsill, crease by crease, then folded it back, crease by crease, until it was an aeroplane again. All done slowly and in complete silence, and I was totally absorbed.
Mum was the only person in my life then, Dad being away during the second world war.
Those few moments at the window, with Mum, feel like magic, even now. Something to do with the deep relationship between a mother and child. Togetherness?
Thirty years later, in the office, I had a sheet of white A4 paper in front of me and wondered if I could remember all those creases and in which order. There were 18 creases and 3 positionings and I got it right first time!
Reminds me of my encounter with the 3 legged Mr. Toad while swimming in the pond, and the way he allowed me to stroke his back and then hold out my hand for him to climb on so that I could enable him to then crawl off onto the ‘shore’.
Thoughout this encounter I chatted constantly to him. I can imagine him back at Toad Hall telling all the other toads ‘he wouldn’t shut up so I took the first opportunity to get away.’
I was camping alone in the Algonquin Provincial Park, Ontario one September. As dusk progressed, the sky became ever more red and orange as if on fire . I was mesmerised - so much so that I had neglected to stash my food out of the way of Mr and Mrs Bear before dark.
I have magical moments every day just by being outside with my border collies….
Whether it’s watching the sunrise or sunset or discovering a birds nest and taking photos of newly hatched little ones or holding a baby hedgehog that my old girl has bought into the lounge or rescuing the birds that inexplicably fly into my conservatory….or rescuing a bumblebee or butterfly that does the same…:
Sometimes it’s just standing outside and watching the birds and the stars and identifying constellations that takes my breath away at the awe inspiring vastness and beauty of nature….
Well this is REAL magic. When I was four (only just four as my birthday is in December ) I woke up in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. My bed was by the window and I lifted the curtain. In the sky was Father Christmas on his sleigh with six reindeer running in front.
I started to cry because I knew that he wouldn’t visit anyone who saw him. I was distraught. But moving my feet still in bed and still crying I heard a rustle.
Incredibly he had already visited me and left a stocking full of presents. Who says miracles don’t happen!!
I seldom respond to posts, in fact–sorry, Survive France–I seldom log in. But I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your ‘magical moment.’ I hope in the 25 years since, you’ve had a few more. I think our true happiness lies in moments like these. Thanks for sharing it.
