Magic that reminds you of childhood is a potion. It is a calling to a piece of your soul that can easily slip away in adulthood. It is spell satchels buried in earth and choreographed dances to Ace of Base. It is eating raw cookie dough and driving nowhere in particular.
When I stumble upon this magic, I like to transcend and dive in whenever possible. And in adult life, we need this fairy dust. These flirtations with fancy. It reminds us to play, to be free, to be light.
While backpacking in Washington, we stumbled upon these:
What were sweet little fairy houses doing in the middle of a campsite?
Ferngully, said my husband.
Yes… of course.
Waiting for the rest of our crew at a different campsite sans fairies, Dustin and I built these:
While building, I imagined Veronica (the fairy occupant of course) sunbathing and reading a book on the second story patio as the sun slides the shade over her moss lawn.
A Ron Swanson would not approve of such tom-foolery. “I don’t want to see any damn hippy art out here when I’m eating my baked beans and whittling sticks!” we imagined he might exclaim.
Sadly, some Swanson-esque curmudgeon will likely come and destroy our little town of Canopy Creek, where Veronica rides her dragonfly back and forth across the water and bartends at the Old Stump Tavern. Her grandfather left her the bar in his will that was found in the apartment above the tavern. Veronica used the room to turn the tavern into an inn. Word is, a fairy who was just passing through, but is weary of the vagabond life, is eyeing the tree behind Veronica’s and hopes to settle down.
But who knows, maybe the fairy houses will stay put. Maybe other hikers or backpackers or even mountain bikers will create fairy habitats in the name of whimsy. Maybe you will.