Where the Magic Still Lives
The idea came to me in the quiet of an ordinary day… the kind of idea that makes your heart smile before your mind has time to question it.
I was planning a sleepover with my two and four year old granddaughters, and I wanted to create something special. Not just another activity, but something they would feel… something they would remember.
A fairy garden.
In the days leading up to their visit, I found myself gathering little treasures with childlike excitement. Fairy houses, delicate figures, a wishing well, a small bridge, a pond, mushrooms and frogs perched on sticks, even a welcome sign. Each piece felt like a doorway into something magical. I prepared an empty flower pot on my front porch, tucked gently into the landscape, ready to become a world of its own.
I had a plan.
After Autumn’s nap, we would step outside together and build a magical land… just for them. But if I’m being honest… it was also for me. Because there is something about magic, make believe, and fairies that softens something deep within my heart.
When the time arrived, my four year old granddaughter could hardly contain her excitement. She had already seen the treasures waiting for her and kept asking, “Is Autumn up from her nap yet?” Her anticipation filled the room, a beautiful reminder of what it feels like to look forward to something with your whole heart.
We waited for her little sister to wake.
And then… it was time.
We stepped outside, the sun warm against our skin, and began creating. Tiny hands moved quickly, sometimes with great care… and sometimes not so much. Each piece was placed with a kind of haphazard love that only children can bring to something.
If you know my youngest granddaughter, you know her spirit is wild and free. She moves through life with a kind of joyful abandon, as if everything is meant to be touched, explored, and experienced all at once. Within moments of handing her what I thought was a sturdy little fairy, one of the wings had broken.
And I paused.
Not in frustration… but in recognition.
Because somehow, that little broken wing felt perfect for her. A reflection of her spirited, all in way of being. She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. In her eyes, the fairy was just as magical… maybe even more so. And isn’t there something beautiful in that?
The girls especially loved the frogs and mushrooms, pushing them into the dirt with delight, again and again. A mama and baby duck found their place in the tiny pond. They arranged and rearranged, stepping back to admire their work, then diving right back in again.
There was no right way.
No perfect placement.
Only joy.
Only creation.
Only belief.
As the afternoon faded, the main fairy house and solar sprinkle lights sat soaking in the sun, quietly preparing for their evening glow. I found myself secretly hoping they would work, almost as much for me as for them. Because there is something about that kind of anticipation… the kind that whispers, what if something magical really happens?
And in that moment, I realized something. We hadn’t just planted a fairy garden. We had planted wonder.
Somewhere along the way, many of us trade wonder for logic. We begin to explain things instead of experience them. We tuck imagination into the corners of childhood and label it something we’ve outgrown.
But what if we haven’t? What if it’s still there… waiting patiently for us to return? Because believing isn’t really about fairies. It’s about remembering.
Remembering a part of ourselves that once saw magic in the ordinary. That believed something unseen could still be deeply real. That understood joy didn’t need proof… it only needed permission. As Albert Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
Children choose the second… every single time. And if we let them, they will gently lead us back. That evening, as the light began to soften, we waited.
And then… in the darkness of night, after Autumn had already gone to bed, the tiny lights flickered on. Soft and gentle, just enough to make you pause. Emery’s face lit up with pure delight, and in that glow, something inside me lit up too.
Not because I suddenly believed fairies had arrived… but because I remembered what it feels like to believe in something magical again.
We are never too old to believe. Not in the exact same way we once did… but in a way that is deeper, softer, and perhaps even more meaningful.
We can believe in moments. In connection, and in love that shows up in the simplest, most unexpected ways.
So maybe the invitation is this…
Plant something.
Create something.
Pause long enough to notice something beautiful today. And if you can… borrow the eyes of a child. Because they will show you what we so often forget, magic was never something we lost. It’s something we simply stopped seeing. Looking through the eyes of a child will lead us to where the magic still lives. And perhaps, just perhaps… it’s been waiting for you to believe again.
xo, Sheryl
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