a nature of magic

When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.

I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.

I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.