I Do Not Know How Not to Look for Magic

I do not know how not to look for magic. It happens so naturally all around me in the more than human world. Upon a silent wish to the Universe to be buoyed up, turtles suddenly surface in sun dappled water to hold me in their intentional gaze while floating effortlessly. Without harm, hives of bees swirl about me to cover an entire lawn as they instinctively seek out their next resting spot. This, when my heart needs to trust that unexpected delight will always find me again. The fox presents herself to me on an agitated walk I take to release uneasy emotions. She holds me in her awareness and moves in parallel, as if ushering me through the liminal space on the path to a transformation that I’ve been fighting.

Why, then, wouldn’t I see magic in a human appearing just after I’ve received word from the cards of their shape and their movement toward me? Why wouldn’t I think charmed a connection that is like a mosaic of many little mirrored pieces of glass that reflects back what appears to be broken bits of sparkling beauty making something whole? And when that connection travels first across years, then months, and, finally, the ocean, why wouldn’t I sense some alchemical reality?

When my heart aches from what might have been magic seemingly morphing into mirage, why should I assume I was wrong? Should I lock my heart up or open it even wider to make it more spacious to receive the next bit of magic possibly manifested just for me?