Childhood Magic

Memories from childhood are some of the most precious ones that I have. Before life overwhelmed me with angst and very real challenges, I always felt like I lived in my imagination more than anywhere else, where life was nothing but one magical experience after another. I grew up in the middle of nowhere, with few neighbors, so I had a lot of land to explore to make up grand adventures for myself. The barn served well for building hay bale fortresses as a Queen in a castle, but the cornfields in the summer served better for my dangerous escape from a criminal who wanted nothing more than to rob me of my witch powers. I loved creating vivid pictures and stories in my head and acting them out however I felt like doing (often with partially reluctant participation from my cats and dogs.)

Most of these memories are clearly ones that I can recall as being an adventure I had invented, but one memory stands out to me in particular that was so full of magic, I've wondered if I somehow made it up. The only difference is I know this one really happened, as I have such strong recollections of that entire experience, and it has stayed with me so strongly because it was the day I decided magic had to be real.

It was a summer day, and for whatever reason, I was upset with my family. I spent a great deal of time outside anyway, so I decided to break a rule and go exploring in the forest on our land without any adult supervision. My assumption was that I likely wouldn't get caught because no one would assume that I would break a rule out of anger. It wasn't the brightest idea, but I was quite full of angst, and I wanted to find somewhere peaceful to calm down. I set off on the long walk from our home to the forest, which was probably about 3/4 of a mile, and had to decide between two different paths in. The first path was the one my parents always made us take, as it had the most defined navigation through the trees, but it was an incredibly boring walk with a very plain and obvious entrance to the woods. The second path was my favorite, and less traveled: it didn't go far before it ended, and the entryway was a natural arc in the branches of the outer lying vegetation. It looked like a magical entrance, and one well suited for a new and creative adventure.

I walked as far as the path took me, and driven by my emotions on a smaller scale than earlier, pushed forward through the trees on an uncharted path. I walked for what felt like forever, as the woods thickened and darkened as I traveled deeper, but I never once lost the feeling that I was heading in the right direction. I knew deep down that my parents would lose their minds if they knew how far in I went, but I had to keep going. Eventually, I lost the feeling of needing to continue, because it seemed that I had stepped away from my home entirely and entered another magical dimension.

I broke through a thick line of vegetation and emerged into the most perfect circle in the middle of the forest that I had ever seen. It was entirely natural looking, and I gazed upward to see sunlight beaming through the trees just in this general area. I heard water nearby, and struggled to recall where I may have even seen running water near our home; for a brief moment I panicked and wondered just how far I'd actually walked. I was drawn away from my temporary panic as I continued to survey my surroundings, and noted that the grass was a paler green than I was used to seeing. Slowly, I lowered myself to my knees and brushed my fingertips across the naturally grown blanket for Mother Earth and discovered it to be the softest grass I'd ever felt. I sat down cautiously and looked up to see a doe gazing at me calmly before darting off into the darkness.

I'll never forget these things about finding this place, but the strongest part of this memory does not lie in the visuals but in the depths of my emotions: I felt so at peace.

I had come there in such a rage, which dwindled away as my anger burned off in my vigorous exploration, but I felt entirely at home. I never knew such an incredibly relaxing feeling prior to finding my magical home in the woods. It was the most sensational, magical, welcoming feeling I'd ever had. It was as if I'd lived there once as a little woodland creature of sorts but had forgotten until I returned to my prior comforts.

I stayed as long as I felt I could get away with before I sighed heavily and walked home as if I had weights strapped to my feet.

Not long after, I remember telling my best friend's mom about finding that spot, and she mused over a recent article she had read claiming a hidden cemetery existed in the forest on our land. I never mentioned it to my family, as I assumed I would be in massive trouble for having gone so far out, but I can recall describing the location to her as vividly as I can recall every detail about my spot in the woods.

The years passed, and I made several more attempts to find that spot again. Much to my dismay, it seemed to have vanished entirely, and I held a heavy heart knowing I'd never come across my mystical safe haven again.

I'm in my thirties now, and I think about the safe haven to this day. I can recall these memories as strongly as I could the day after I found my spot in the woods. Most specifically, I can remember how velvet soft the grass was, how pale green it glowed under the streams of sunlight through the leaves, and how I felt when I was there. When I recall my spectacular adventures I created as my own world of entertainment, my memories are much different, coming across as a soft haze of an image in my brain. It's like looking at the sun on an incredibly foggy morning. This memory has made me question my own ability to recall my past, though.

What is it that makes a memory more or less false than the actual event? At one point in my life, a friend told me, "Memories are funny, because you will re-tell the story over and over, but a slight detail might change every time. It doesn't mean it happened differently than what you remember, we just keep finding new ways to explain how we remember it, and then we remember our retelling moments and embellish upon those."

This concept has given me plenty to think about in regards to memories and how we relate to them in the future. When my friend spoke this philosophy, my mind immediately traveled back to that special day in my childhood.

Not many people have been told about my memory of this event, but I've reflected on the times I have shared this story with others and it's always the same things I refer back to: the grass, the sunlight, and my feelings. Many people can relate smells, sensations, and emotions to their memories, thus solidifying their presence in people's minds, and I've told myself often that this is certainly one memory I can specifically remember without bias or embellishments added on. It simply was so spectacular that I can recall every moment as if I lived it just the other day.

There are other memories of mine that I can specifically recall sharing with people on so many occasions that they did, indeed, come with a few extra decorations per re-telling. Nothing so drastic as adding new people or giving myself a superpower, but little things here and there that created more excitability about my reminiscing. I believe my friend was right when he said what he said, and having heard this perspective has helped me come to stronger terms with the fact that something wonderful and comforting and very, very real happened to my youthful self.

Childhood magic isn't necessarily always something kids create in their minds; the magic part isn't necessarily flashy spells, sparks, chants, or gimmicky experiences we're used to seeing in film and television. Sometimes, I think, nature can sense what we need most and provide it only in that moment. Perhaps everybody doesn't have a memory of magic, but there is certainly no reason to assume it cannot exist.