Once upon a time can happen every day. It does happen every day.
How often are we rushing too blindly through our moments and hours to pause and watch the magic reveal itself?
How often do we spend our time thinking, thinking, thinking, round and round and round, going nowhere, trying to figure things out?
How often do we just sit and look–sit and be–wandering along a lake, pausing in a forest?
If you listen hard, you’ll sometimes hear the magic, like giggling fairies, in the distance.
Like the other night, when I was walking along the lake–I heard–
I think I heard–
The sound of laughter. Children’s laughter. Back at the beginning. Near the long beached white log on the shore.
Always sit and listen to children’s laughter. It will bring a smile to the hardest and saddest of faces. Their laughter can melt a grieving heart, a suffering spirit.
Suddenly, as simply and quickly as it arose, the laughter disappears. The children are gone.
No sign of them anywhere.
Was it really the laughter of children–or was it perhaps a visit from the wee ones, the invisible ones, the fairies?
Look! There, back at the beginning, lies a pile of stacked rocks leading from earth to sky! One sits out in the water, how many stones high? Another rises from the beached log, maybe fifteen precarious stones high, an engineering feat, a marvel of spirit.
No sign of children. No sign of cars. No sign anywhere. It is a hushed evening, an evening of possibility, an evening where summer fairies might just laugh open some deserted rocky beach, and build cairns to celebrate their eternal joy.
I think it was the fairies. Don’t you?