I’ve written before about the need for mystery in our lives, the lure that magic holds for us, the desire for miracles. In his brilliant book, HOGFATHER, Terry Pratchett writes: Humans need fantasy to be human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Every day, magic presents itself to us if we have but the wit to find it. Sometimes it isn’t easily observable; one must hone patience and skill, and learn to look in odd places.
Here is my bit of today’s magic: Driving across the Gold Star Bridge from Groton to New London in a heavy snow-storm. Roads are slick; half the people are driving sanely, the other half not so much. All I want is to get home. At the crest of the bridge I look to the right, toward where I know the Thames River (pronounced like James; I know, I’m sorry) runs along the Coast Guard Academy. Today there is nothing to see except a blank canvas of white and fog. And then….
Rising up on some odd thermal from the water or the skirl of wind from beneath the bridge, hovering not with effort (as is often the case with the winds here) but with an ease that is ethereal, is a flock of seagulls. They seemed to not be riding the storm so much as to be made of it — white and grey on white and grey, wings held just so and umoving, bobbing slightly in the air as if fixed into place like bobble-dolls, a cosmic mobile for the pleasure of Childe Earth.