Why I Believe in Magic

There once was a fairy named Gloriana. She lived in a little house made of wood and bright, patterned paper. The fairy house lived in my bedroom.

Gloriana would leave little notes for me written in scripty cursive on scraps of pastel tissue paper. She would sometimes leave gifts— a piece of chocolate, or a rock maybe. These gifts were cherished by me, little treasures, and the chocolate never eaten. They lived in the fairy house as mementos of Gloriana’s existence.

Of course, Gloriana was imaginary. But I believed she was real. The paper house was decorated for me by my big sister, and the notes were written by my sweet mother, I found out later. It was as though we collectively willed her to life. I remember the anticipation of Gloriana’s first visit, my sister gifting me the house and awaiting the fairy’s first arrival. I wrote her a note, and one day I got one back. I checked the little house frequently, looking for signs of a visit. The days she came felt truly magic.

I don’t think I told my friends. She was my secret friend. A fairy pen pal, a little girl’s dream. Eventually the exchanges became less frequent, and one day there were no more notes. But I kept my fairy house in my bedroom for the rest of my childhood, as a reminder of magic’s existence.

Years later, the summer after my freshman year of college, I worked in a coffee shop. That place was magic in itself, a staff that felt like family and regular customers that seemed like characters in a storybook. My favorite customer was a middle-aged man named Charlie. An artist, never married. He didn’t like technology, but he read a lot of books. And of course, he’d lived a lot of lives. He showed me how he did his drawings, told me stories, and gave me advice— all from the coffee shop. He was my friend. He gave me things to think about.

One day, he told me fairies were real. Of course, I believed him. He told me I could meet them in the woods if I spoke softly and listened carefully. Charlie, too, would leave me notes on little pieces of paper, scraps from guest check pads. Sometimes it would be me, jotting down things he said so I wouldn’t forget. Pottery in Spain, horseback riding, watercolor in Cape Cod, the best farms for berry picking.

I have one of his notes hung on my wall to this day. It reads, “watch the stars tonight and make 10 wishes”. I can’t see the stars from my apartment in Philly, but I know they’re there.

This theme of magic has followed me throughout my life. I might sound naive, maybe a little delusional. I’m a realist at the end of the day, but why not believe in something that feels bright? I know the power of the mind, how believing in something deeply enough can will it into existence. Maybe not fairies, but love, adventure, and ambitions. Maybe fairies too.