I talk (and write) a lot about the forests of my childhood in Northern Michigan, and how they shaped me as a witch, a writer, and an artist. And while I know it’s easier to be awed as a child than as an adult, I still maintain those woodlands were some of the most magical I’ve ever encountered. Of course, they stood in a rural part of the country, and I almost always had the trees to myself when I ventured into the woods. They were free of litter, and of the noises of playing children, cell phone converesations, nearby traffic, and low flying airplanes. The relative wildness of the area made it easier to feel the enchantment. It’s no surprise that I remember those woods with fondness, and miss them often.

My current suburban life makes it much harder to tune into the magic of the land. There are too many humans walking their dogs and playing music on their phones. There’s garbage in every green space. The interstate is close enough to my house, and most of the parks I frequent, that there’s a constant whoosh of car noise. We’re close enough to the Portland airport to be in the flight path of many planes. It’s anything but peaceful here.

And yet. Underneath the noise and constant human presence, the land is still alive. Around the corner from my house, a tiny pocket of woodland invites me to linger when I can. And from time to time I find a quiet moment when I’m mostly alone there, and I can let my guard down enough to pay attention. And in those moments I become aware of the same enchantment breathing among the trees. 

The truth, in my opinion, is the land is no less enchanted than it ever was. It’s humanity who has lost our intimacy with the numinous, most of us wrapped up in heavy layers of productivity, profitability, and practicality. Our culture has largely convinced itself that the woods and waters are haunted no more. And we suffer for it.

There was a time, in high school and college, when I tried to be an intellectual, to smile knowingly at superstition and whimsy, as if I’d learned better. It made me miserable. And it was the forest near my childhood home, one misty spring morning a year or two after I graduated college, that reminded me how I knew the world was alive, aware, awake. Since that day I’ve courted the mystery, working to regain everything I tried to shed when I left childhood behind. The world I live in doesn’t make it easy. But persistence pays off. Even in the prosaic suburbs of Portland, I find pockets of magic. The trees still speak. Spirits still wander among the trees, even in my tiny back yard. The land never stopped being enchanted, and every day I seek to re-enchant myself. 

Questions to ponder:

Are there places near your home where you feel more aware of the natural magic that lives in the land?

If you don’t know of any, have you looked?

If not, would you like to?

Does the idea of enchanted woods and wild places frighten or delight you? Or is it, perhaps, a bit of both?

Do you ever try to express this kind of natural magic in your creative endeavors?

Photo by yours truly.

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