Small Sorcery
The word ‘magic’ is one we often toss around with a certain lightness, but it carries a weight of history that would make any bookshelf groan. It derives from the Old Persian magush, meaning "a member of a learned priestly cast.” To the ancients, magic wasn’t about pulling rabbits from hats or sawed-in-half assistants; it was synonymous with deep, specialised knowledge. It was the art of understanding the hidden gears of the world. I find great comfort in this older definition. It suggests that magic isn’t necessarily a break from reality, but rather a more intimate engagement with it. When we look closely enough at the mundane, at the way a specific pigment catches the light or the intricate logic of a well-worn path, we are, in a sense, practicing magic in its original form.
Of course, our modern world often feels determined to scrub away the ‘magical’ in favour of the efficient. We are surrounded by polished glass and frictionless interfaces that demand very little of our wonder. Yet, even in a city of concrete and schedules, magic has a habit of bubbling up through the cracks. It appears in those small, startling coincidences: finding the exact book you needed in a dusty corner of a shop, or the way the evening light hits a particular brick wall and turns it, for a fleeting moment, into gold. These are the glimmers of the everyday, the moments where the veil between the ordinary and the extraordinary wears thin enough to see through. It doesn't require a wand, merely a bit of patience and perhaps a very sharp pair of eyes.
There is a specific kind of magic, too, in the objects we surround ourselves with. We might think of them as mere things: a favourite fountain pen, a sturdy pair of boots, a beloved ceramic mug, but they are also vessels for memory and intent. In literature, a single object can hold the weight of an entire character’s history, and I suspect the same is true for us. When we use a tool that has been crafted with care, or handle an artifact that has survived the tumble of decades, we are touching a tangible form of sorcery. It is a connection across time, a silent conversation between the maker and the user. It’s a reminder that while the seasons may shift and the snow may pile high against our doors, the human desire to imbue the world with meaning remains a constant.
As we move through the world, whether we are trudging through the last stubborn slush of spring or strolling under a clear summer canopy, I hope you find your own pockets of the magush. Perhaps it’s in the rhythm of a task well done or the quiet thrill of a new discovery. There is plenty of enchantment to go around if one knows where to look. Until next time, dear reader, may your days be filled with small wonders.
Jennifer