You remembered the gardens and told me of them. They were magical to me, you said. And I think of our children and the magical spaces that they inhabit daily, places made special by what is noticed: the trail left by the insect crawling through the sand, the leaves on the small tree near the trail turning from green to red, the map that shows us where we are and where we’re going and what was once here, the sound of the boats bobbing in the harbor, the remembered names of the flowers out back and the birds singing overhead, the mud puddle that becomes swimming hole, costume, and exquisite confection all in one. Their favorite places, experienced once or experienced often, are always known intimately and held within their hearts as magical, and this is the gift they give to us, their magic, and it sustains us. Their favorite places become our favorite places, and their magic is shared with us and becomes ours, and we remember. We remember and inhabit once more the boundless field of a child’s experience, a field rich with wonder and magic, experiences direct, unmediated, and always fully present.
And now, later, I reflect upon those memories that are mine and are not yours.
