Magical Monarch Moment

There was some magnificence in today though. It was a beautiful day with a nice breeze. The birds, bees, and butterflies were busily enjoying all factors.
It's so nice that the small creatures of nature appreciate the work that I (and mostly my friend) put into creating a place for them.
It is also "nice" that I can sit at my desk and look out my door or window and see them going about their lives, adding their own color to the patchwork and their own movements to nature's dance.
I saw the little white butterflies that we called cabbage moths playing tag or chase, whooshing up an ascending breeze and drifting downward when it passes. They chased one another through the flower beds and across the yard for I don't know how long.
It made me laugh.
The magickal highlight today wasn't the white wingers playing tag together though. 

The highlight of the day was a single monarch butterfly.
This monarch, which looked to be as large as my hand, cruised in the center of the yard, away from the flowers and the weeds.
This monarch was alone. No companions; no playmates.
This monarch was in the spotlight -- I mean sunlight -- in the middle of my freshly mown yard, with the treetops tossing and the leaves cheering on.
And this monarch performed for it's audience.
(or was it only playing?)
Up and down it swam and soared and slid and sailed. Climbing and banking, or drifting in a straight(ish) line from one end of the yard to the other.
I swear I could almost hear it shrieking "Whee!" on several dives, and "Oooh!" during the climbs. I could feel the wind beneath its wings and the surety that came with that.
As I headed back inside, it floated toward me, rested for a moment -- I think it was smiling -- and then flew off in another direction.

A slice of time.

It's been a grayish rainish day today and now that night is creeping in, the sunlight has taken on a misty mystic haze of almost-but-not-quite-a-rainbow light.

The air glows like golden dust.

The sun is behind the trees now. The trees are haloed in the diffused light. Not quite colors quiver as leaves tremble.

Along the alley, a long lazy ray of white light makes its way down the pavement, perfectly placed evenly with the edges. At those edges, where the light meets the grass, the color blossoms into golden fizz, dancing above the ground.

I reach for my phone, my only camera, and try to capture this ethereal moment that was already fading.

I cannot, of course. The magic is beyond both my skill and the phone cameras abilities.

I hope my words have helped you to see it. A slice of time such as this is meant to be shared,and i am sharing it with you.

The Lure of That Light

The light lured me out that night.

The moonlight coming through my ceiling.  

Sometimes silver, sometimes white.

Promising.

Hopeful.

A reminder of beauty, and receding darkness, and tomorrows.

Yes. it was cold out there, but that light was so intriguing.

 I had to see it, look at it, feel it on my skin, breathe it into my body.

So I wrapped up in a blanket, slipped on some shoes, and went to sit on my porch while the coffee brewed.

It was everything that has ever been said about moonlight. All the clichés come to life. Silver, gold, pure, clear, white, magic, mystic, omnipresent. 

Wise.

Every reality, every dream

I had thought to return to my shelter when the coffee was done, but instead I found myself dragging a chair off the porch, into the yard, to settle myself, my blanket, and my hot drink out in the yard beside my fence. 

I looked up and up into the purity of a winters night, with the beacon moon tangled and bouncing in the bare black branches of the stripped trees. 

Black clouds gathered around the light, and crowded it, trying to overtake it.

But it would not be doused. 

It serenely shone on, as the branches danced and painted themselves with the colors of the light.  So much light so that when the darkness of the ominous clouds did succeed in dimming the light, the trees were able to return the light to its source, so that the darkness never blotted it out completely.

Such symbiosis!

Such love.

Such faith in the intangibles. 

I don't know how long I sat out there. Or how short. Time did not exist while the moon glowed, the wind made music, and the trees danced. 

I don't know.

 And I do not care.

The time thatwasn't, that I was just another part of. A twig. A dust mote. A breath of wind. 

A breath of life.

Yes, the magic of moonlight, cliched as it is, was tall and strong and all inclusive that night.

And I was humbled and exalted to be a part of it.

.

Making Magic

Today, I made magic for a child.

It was a follow up to the magic I made last night, when I took cookies out of the oven, and promised her that tomorrow we would decorate them. She didn't know what decorate meant, I think, but was willing to take my word for it.
After all, a Mammaw who can get cookies out of an oven instead of a bag must know something.

Today while she was watching tv, I got my powdered sugar and my milk and food coloring and 4 bowls and 1 coffee cup that belonged to my dad and started mixing. When Hailey's show was over, she came out to the kitchen and climbed up in the chair.

"Mammaw, it's purple. And orange."

I showed her how to use the purple plastic knives to spread the frosting on the cookies, but it was still pretty runny, so I reached into my bag of powder and dumped another handful into each bowl. Then I picked one up and started stirring it in.

"Ooooh, Mammaw! You're making magic! I want to help! We can make a RAINBOW!"

So, I told her to pick up a bowl and stir it up. She said she was making green magic, and I was making purple magic, and blue magic, and yellow magic, and she was doing orange magic.

Then we painted the cookies.

I put sprinkles on the cookies after they were painted and she yelled at me that I was "Messing up" her magic paint cookies.
But she was liberal with the sprinkles and the candies herself afterward.

Sadly, we still have paint left, and nothing to paint on. My flour is nearly gone or I'd make a plain cake or something -- then we could indeed make a rainbow. I put the leftover frosting in jars in the refrigeratoe. She keeps telling me the food paint is getting cold. I have no idea if it will keep or if it is safe to keep that way, but if it goes bad, there's always the sink.

I could have a rainbow drain.

The real magic is in the child's simple belief that Mammaw can do magic -- and lets her help.

Surely there's no greater magic than feeding the children -- bodies and imagination both.