Mood: Wishful Thinking | Drinking: The Usual Tea
When I was a kid, I wanted to be Lucy Pevensie.
I wanted to stumble across a magical wardrobe and find myself suddenly transported to a strange world filled with all manner of bewitching possibilities and talking animals.
I believed that if given the chance, I, like Lucy, would be the fiercest ally of dryads and nyads, of fauns and other furry folk.
I would believe in Aslan. I would see him amid the trees when no-one else could, and would keep believing even when all hope was abandoned.
I deserved a chance at magic, I thought, and looked for it everywhere, always expecting to chance upon a clue, a key to Narnia or some other equally fascinating and decidedly non-Earth-as-I-knew-it realm.
Then I grew up.
And now? Now I find my magic in the small places and neglected corners. I find my magic in words and in rhythm and in drinking sweet tea. I find it where I can.
But I still wish I could be Lucy Pevensie. I wish I could believe so easily, hope so bravely.
Perhaps I still have a chance, though. I can’t exactly be Lucy herself (on account of my advanced age and all), but maybe someday I could be her mother.
-Lo, who sometimes believes her dog can speak.