I walked out of the light into the damp night and could breathe again. An old hill wind was flying fast and winter-hearted over the valley, bringing forest wildness to the hill where I stood. I smelled mustiness and wet pine; I remembered walking barefoot through that forest, and listening to its whispered songs in the night as I lay amongst the roots of my big, pale house.
In that moment of faraway, I felt very close to myself, the self I had been all those decades ago.
The older I get, the more I think back to my childhood and the stronger my sense memories from that time feel. Memories of smell and texture and heartbeat. When I was seven and taken out of the forest into suburbia, I felt magic slip away from me as if it was a weave of woodland tendrils that could not thrive amongst concrete. But almost forty years later that dirt magic and faery music return now and again in the wind, the wet nights. It's almost as if I grew into intelligent sensibility ... and now I'm starting to grow beyond it, into something reminiscent of the instinctual, wild, wordless enchantment of childhood.
Why do we guide our children out of their magical connection with the supernatural world? Why do we make them sensible and straight, at least until they're old enough not to care and fear anymore and can reclaim their wild selves? We so dearly need fairy-whisperers, wish-makers, dreamers, dancing spirits, for our teen and adult communities. We need the magic itself.