Mundane Magic

By Willow Noelle

Groskreutz

Home

 

Home is a people, not a place.

 

At least, that's what I used to say until I went home after a few years of living away.  My memories from childhood hold solace, leading me to believe home is anything familiar.  But familiarity, like comfort, can be sticky.

 

Perhaps home is a people or a place you can always go back to.

 

***

 

This story would be more romantic if it was reversed.  If I'd gone from a place like so many others to one that doesn't compare with anywhere else in the world.  Like Alaska. Instead, I packed up my most precious belongings and witnessed the landscape change from my car window.  It took me twelve days to reach North Carolina.

 

Alaska is easy to romanticize.  It's breathtaking at any given moment.   Anytime I looked up, it was stunning.  Drop dead gorgeous every single day.  But that's just it.  The beauty becomes redundant and somewhat overwhelming.  With magnificence so intense, it makes you forget that other beautiful places exist.  And that makes the world seem very small.

 

***

 

I thought I had to justify my decision and rationalize my emotions.  Oh, logic.  How it muddles intuition.  The truth is I just needed to go.  Trade in the cold shoulder of Alaska for a warm, gentle embrace and accept that trust is a leap of faith.

 

***

 

North Carolina is a place that's easy to overlook.  When I first got here, it seemed dull in comparison.  Such a stark, flat contrast.  It took me a while to overcome the initial shock.  I yearned for wilderness, someplace quiet and untouched where I could process the gravity of my decision.  So, I started going for walks.  That is where I discovered how many places there were to escape to and explore in my own backyard.  Once I learned to adjust my attention to smaller details and accept the land for what it was, it revealed its treasures.  All the beauty and magic in the seemingly mundane.

 

I may not know the city well.  I can't tell you where all the cool places are.  But I can tell you which animal makes which sound and little signs that say what the weather will do. Like how blackbirds gather before the cold.  For me, that's a deeper understanding of where I'm at in the world.

 

It takes a while to get to know a place and all its intimacies.  To become in tune with how things change.  That's a knowingness too many people take for granted or ignore altogether.  I know the Piedmont and how it moves.  Things have become familiar.  It's a home now.

 

***

 

Homes are created, and some are destroyed.  And sometimes, home finds us.  In little happenings and large.

 

Spring

 

Spring is my favorite season in all the climates I've known. Everything is fresh and new, and there's all of summer to look forward to. It's like the morning of the year, a symphonic crescendo culminating in a glorious, harmonic cord.

 

In the Piedmont, the first telltale signs of spring are red, purple, and pink. The seedlings from the maple trees are the same color as the fall leaves, as if the true color of maples is red instead of green.

 

The type of rain is another sign of spring. It's a mixture of winter rain and summer rain. Winter rain is steady. Summer rain falls in a heavy downpour and leaves just as fast. It brings humidity and thunderstorms, but only for a few days before blowing away and leaving the Piedmont back in winter.

 

I gauge spring by the increasing levels of heat, humidity, and the hostility of geese.

 

Winter geese are aloof, as if they know, deep down, they aren't supposed to be here. They move together in groups. Early spring geese begin to get territorial – mating season is about to begin. Walking past them is a risk. They might hiss and flap their wings, cutting a brisk walk short. I'm not sure where all the geese disappear to when full spring arrives, or when the trees disperse bright green clouds of pollen. By full spring, there are only one pair of geese per pond. I assume this is because they are preparing for their goslings. The fuzzy creatures arrive as the first wild irises bloom.

 

Geese aren't the only bird to measure the change in season. The cardinals will make sure of that. Every morning, their bright, chirpy songs begin before dawn. Spring mornings bring a choir of songbirds, each chiming in at their respective hours. Most birds, like the cardinal, calm down by late afternoon, just as they fall silent in late summer.

 

The goldfinch arrives when spring reaches its lush green peak. Goldfinches prefer the juniper bushes behind my balcony, compared to the purple finches who make nests in hanging ferns.

 

By this time, frog songs will fill the night. When night falls on warm afternoons in the Piedmont, the day doesn't end. A new duality begins.

 

***

 

Spring is a time for beginnings. Not just for flora and fauna but for people, too. It's a time to cut off dead ends to feel light again. So, I reset my calendar at the equinox once winter has completed its grueling course. I say 'grueling' because the long winters of the far north still haunt my memories, and I find myself eagerly anticipating spring like a habit.

 

One winter, I decided to embrace it and all it represents. Confront the things I could no longer deny so spring would be a reward, not an escape.

 

What I thought would be a violent upheaval was a nurturing process of composting my discarded thoughts and feelings. On those dreary winter days, I took the dusty boxes out of my attic and sifted through them, deciding which pieces I would take with me and which ones I would throw away.

 

***

 

Happiness is always novel and new. And like springtime, it will blossom, bloom, and wilt. Happiness is a season. It must grow and end to begin again.

 

  

Patience

 

On one side of my building is a small clearing secluded by evergreens and a hill covered in blackberries. A creek cuts through the grass. It gurgles from one storm drain to the next at the base of a rock bed.

 

It’s a beautiful feature for an apartment complex, but to the impatient eye, it doesn’t look like much. That couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s a home and a water source for all types of timid creatures.

 

There’s always a splash near the mouth of the creek when I come near. The water pools there and is home to various small fish, some turtles, and a bullfrog. Once I’ve sat there for a moment, silent and still, they determine I am not a threat and carry on. The bullfrog resumes his baritone song, and the water bounces as fish dart up to catch gnats and bugs.

 

I’ve learned the calls of many birds down by the creek with my feet in the dewy grass, listening to the soothing sound of talking water. They like to splash in the ripples, unveiling all the hidden colors of their feathers.

 

The squirrels like to drink from the creek, as do the family of feral cats. They are the most cautious creatures around. The kittens are quick to slink back to the cover of the blackberries. On cold winter mornings, I would catch sight of the mama cat in a sunny spot on the hill, warming up after the night’s freeze.

 

On summer days, when it’s warm and bright, I’ll see the brown water snake sunbathing on the rocks. Brown water snakes aren’t venomous but still prefer their undisturbed space. This suits me just fine. I come here to do nothing but blend into the background and belong.

 

 

The Ponds Part I

View from my window

 

Across the street from my apartment is a pond.  It's not the prettiest of all the ponds around, as it lacks a filter and is downhill from the road.  Algae blooms are common, and trash accumulates quickly, which is unfortunate since it's a preferred spot for geese.  It's also home to at least one snapping turtle.  I watched her emerge from the pond on a misty November morning.  She parked her prehistoric self under the oak tree before lumbering into the creek.

 

The oak tree is the view from my window from April to October.  To me, views of trees from windows are the same as winning the lottery, especially considering I moved in here sight unseen.  From my second-story balcony, I'm surrounded by trees and have a front-row seat for the fantastic summer storms.

 

Thunderstorms are predictable.  All day, moisture in the air accumulates into huge, bulbous clouds.  Eventually, the sky will darken into a dark blue, which contrasts beautifully against the lush green canopy.  Then the wind comes, shaking branches and leaves.  Next up is the rain, pelting the roof and pouring off in sheets.  Only lightning lights up the sky.  Sometimes I can hear the crackle and static slice through the atmosphere before the sky breaks into an awesome boom of thunder.  It makes the lights flicker and sends the cat scurrying under the couch. 

 

While I adore the liveliness of summer in the Piedmont, I'm secretly pleased when the oak tree parts with its leaves.  I get my water view back.  The pond shimmers and glistens in the sunlight all winter, making up for the drab, sepia-toned days.

 

Sanctuary

 

You take care of what you love.  That's how I feel about the willow pond.

 

The willow pond, like most ponds here, is a flood reservoir.  All that rain has got to go somewhere.  As such, the oval pond is surrounded by steep hills.  A path leads down and around.  It serves as a basin for floodwaters, a bank for growing trees, and a trail to walk on.  It's practical and a haven for life.

 

Turtles bask on the thin outcropping of rocks that stretch from one side of the pond to the other.  Myrtles, oaks, maples, and a weeping willow tree live along the banks.  The willow has two daughters growing nearby.  Judging by the style of nearby buildings, I'd say the willow tree is at least twenty-five years old.

 

Wild rose bushes, reeds, and leafy pond plants line the shores.  They provide shelter for ducks, geese, herons, kingfishers, and hooded mergansers.  In the springtime, wild irises decorate the banks with splashes of purple.  The red-winged blackbirds fly back and forth from one tree to the next, exclaiming their distinctive, three-tone call.  Far above, on the power lines, mourning doves coo softly.

 

Visiting the pond any time of day is a treat.  In the mornings, mist rises off the water.  When the sky turns pink in the evenings, the pond holds up a mirror.

 

Only a short walk over the hill, this place has been my recluse since day one.  I've learned that it's always a good idea to walk around the pond when I'm anxious or stuck.  The time it takes to complete a loop is perfect for a quick reset.  Or to keep going around and around – running if need be.  Pond walks are never a waste of time.  How could it be?  There's always something new to see, and sometimes it's unexpected.  Two instances stand out.  In one, I watched a falcon circle over the water before dive-bombing down, submerging itself completely, and reemerging with a fat goldfish in its talons.

 

The second instance is even more remarkable.  Mysterious, too.  I saw something in the willow tree, nestled up in the branches.  It was a crystal.  A heavy chunk of raw green fluorite.  I had so many questions.  Who put it there, and why? 

 

The crystal was still there the next day and the following week.  Only when it showed up in my dreams did I go down to the pond to accept.  Several months later, a mushroom grew up from the exact same spot.  Coincidence?  Maybe, but probably not.

 

***

 

The willow pond, also known as the iris pond or heron pond, is a home.  Without this pond, I could not delight in its life or recharge in its soil.  Naturally, I care about the well-being of all life forms that live there.

 

Every few months, I take a trash bag with me to pick up pieces of human debris.  I cut a female purple finch free from a fishing line wrapped around her tiny ankle so she could rejoin her mate, who'd fluttered anxiously about on a nearby myrtle.  I uprooted a thorny weed that had grown up from the base of the willow tree and untangled it from her hanging branches.

 

When you love something and take care of it, chances are it will also take care of you.

  

Trail Mix

 

The trails are the best part of where I live. I did not know about them when I first moved here or that few neighborhoods in my area are within walking distance of trails.

 

The main trail is paved and runs parallel to a stream. A marshy area dotted with tiny yellow, blue, and purple flowers separates the path from the stream. Oak, sweetgum, and poplar trees tower overhead on each side, sheltering the trail from the encroachment of civilization. Signposts mark it as the McDowell Creek Greenery. As for me, I call it my natural salvation.

 

Hawks glide overhead, bluebirds fritter in the bushes. Cottontail rabbits munch the buttercups. Crickets chirp like tiny flutes, and cicadas trill as if winding up a clock. Toads sing from the puddles that collect on the side of the pavement. It is a wetland, after all. Fireflies light up the shadows with their dance. And me, frolicking along like Snow White, a dreamy smile on my face, hardly able to believe I've stumbled into a fairytale scene.

 

***

 

Three unpaved trails branch off from the paved path, all heading east.

When walking north, the first is a narrow, winding dirt trail that curves along soft valleys and peaks cut by the ravine. This is my favorite trail. The dense forest filters the sunlight, and tree roots turn the path into an obstacle course. A picturesque clearing marks the halfway point on the trail.  Here, I often catch glimpses of deer and the occasional wild turkey. The clearing is adorned with vibrant wildflowers, and a thriving colony of white and orange mushrooms on decomposing tree trunks. It amazes me that I've been here long enough to remember the day they were cut.

 

The entrance to this trail is easy to miss unless you know it's there. I felt like I had struck a gold mine the day I discovered it.

 

Just a stone's throw away from the first trail, the second is wide and grassy. Concrete domes sit humbly every few meters, marking the sewer line buried underneath.

 

The third trail separates the disk golf course from the forest. The trail is lined with persimmon trees and milkweed to attract pollinators. Imported gravel covers the ground, with blue and white hues reminiscent of the granite mountains back west. The natural rock here is red.

 

It was on the disk golf trail that I tested my bravery. I was jogging along, lost in thought when I noticed something long and black up ahead. My feet stopped abruptly. It was a snake. It slithered leisurely across the trail before pausing on one side, poking its head through the grass and leaves. I debated turning around rather than completing my usual loop. But I'd come all this way already, and plus, its skin was black, so it was not poisonous. Why should I let a snake stand in my way? My heart pounded as I jogged closer. It ignored me. Once within a few feet, I sprinted past him, faster than I'd ever run before, and kept going. The fear had bubbled over into triumphant glee.

 

Snow Day

 

Familiarity found me in the snow. I didn't think seeing snow would make me feel at home, but when winter gave the Piedmont a proper snow day, I thought, I know this stuff. Although it wasn't what I was used to. More sleet and freezing rain than dry powder. Regardless, it completely transformed the walking trail.

 

Snow tells the truth. It knows where you've been and what you've done. It reveals all the things that like to hide, like the rabbits and the deer.

  

The Ponds Part II

Native Species

 

When I first moved here, the pond towards the northern end of my walking range was overgrown with bamboo.  I would go there at dusk to watch the bats swoop up from the floating dock and listen to them bounce their sonic chirps against the trees that hugged the banks.  I thought the bamboo was beautiful, with smooth, dark green stalks and leaves that whistled mysteriously in the wind.  Combined with the summer heat and humidity, it made the Piedmont feel tropical.  But then winter would come to collect the leaves from the trees, and the bamboo seemed very out of place.

 

When the parks department ripped it out and laid down a thick layer of mulch, it was clear how the bamboo had choked out all the native species.  Only a few scraggly native pines, hollies, and magnolias made it out alive.

 

Magnolias are indigenous to North America.  Myrtle trees are not.  Neither are silk trees, with their fern-like fawns and pink flowers.

 

In the Piedmont, you can find evergreen trees like the southern yellow pine, red cedar, holly, magnolia, and hemlock.  The region is also home to leaf-dropping trees such as poplar, dogwood, sweetgum with its star-shaped leaves, and various types of maple, oak, and hickory.  Of course, this list is not exhaustive.

 

North Carolina is also home to many invasive species, including jasmine, honeysuckle, poison ivy, poison oak, wisteria, mistletoe, and unknown creeping vines that ensnare their victims.  In summer, these parasites give the trees a shaggy appearance, as if they were wearing a gurney suit.

 

Foreign plant species take well to the temperate climate here. At the rate they grow and at the pace the Charlotte metro expands with newcomers unknowingly bringing outside pollens and seeds in, I'm curious to see what the forests will look like in 20-50 years.

 

I wonder where I will be by then. If I'll watch the story unfold or bring its pollen with me to someplace new.

 

Interference

 

At the southern end of the trail is another pond. My range ends there, although the path does not. It extends into the shopping area I generally avoid, especially on weekends and after 5 o'clock.

 

The pond is long and narrow. The trail hugs one side of the bank. Halfway through is a bridge, where the pond slowly drains into a creek. Turtles will poke up their heads within moments of admiring the pond from the bridge. I've counted over twenty before. Unfortunately, the turtles are used to being fed processed snacks by shoppers.

 

One day I noticed a turtle that had fallen through the drain and was stranded on the concrete platform under the bridge. It seemed unlikely it would ever find its way back into the pond if I didn't go down there, pick it up, and drop it back in. If I didn't save it, it could find a new home in the creek and possibly wind up in another pond full of its kind. Or it would be picked off before it ever got the chance.

 

I went to climb down onto the concrete platform but paused. I remembered when I tried to move a dead baby bird off the sidewalk into the bushes, only to discover a slug was halfway through its arduous journey to a meal. If I reunited the turtle with its home, I could jeopardize a hungry fox that needs an easy meal to survive another day. Or I could disrupt the need for balance in the pond.

 

I decided not to save the turtle. It's not my place to interfere with the course of things. What's death to some is life to others and a reminder to all what life is about.

 

 

Flow State

 

The best writing happens when it feels like doing a puzzle.  With puzzles, getting stuck is easy, but the challenge is half the fun.  Once I finally break through and enter that flow state, all the pieces reveal themselves, and how they fit together becomes clear.

 

The hard part is getting to that flow state.

 

***

 

Great blue herons frequent the ponds where I live.  They are one of my favorite animal sightings.  They look so noble in the water, stepping elegantly through the shallows and scooping up fish in one swift motion.  They are patient, elusive, and quick to glide from one side of the pond to the next when startled, hovering inches above the surface.

 

Herons nest in trees, which I find hard to imagine.  They seem more natural near water than in the hair.  Flying looks like a challenge for them.  They bend their long, skinny legs to push off while flapping their giant wings with all their might.  It looks heavy and awkward.  At times, impossible.  But then they would catch a current and soar.  I’ve since noticed herons flying past my house from one pond to the next, their prehistoric shape maintaining a steady course.

 

The heron knows where it’s going.

 

***

 

Everything is difficult until it becomes natural.  The flow state is like this.  It takes a lot of work to get going, but once you’re in the air, the effort falls away.

 

 

The Place I Pray

 

I live within walking distance of four churches, but none of them are where I go to pray. The place where I go is a small clearing on a creek bank.

 

A fallen tree lies across the creek. The water glitters with white sand and mica. Foliage secludes it from the trail. Small birds sing from the treetops like guardian angels up above.

 

The creek side clearing can only be reached by foot, and that’s part of what I like about it. I can move my thoughts around while I walk. It’s important to be prepared because this is a sacred spot. I only go there to release my burdens.

 

When I go to the place I pray, I ask for courage to confront the things that scare me. Past, present, and future. I beg that all those I love and care for, near and very far, find continued happiness and health.

 

***

The world speaks to us in every moment. In flashes of heat lightning, gusts of wind, or sunlight breaking through the clouds. Animal sightings and the symbols they carry. Crystals appearing in trees. Everything is more than is seems.

 

Earth is a portal for creation. A manifestation of life itself. Where I once sought formlessness like mist, I now embrace more life here on earth. Progress happens in the flesh. My feet stand on solid ground. I am here, and so I belong.

 

Omens 

I don’t believe in coincidences. My inability to understand meaning and significance does not imply a lack thereof. I believe the earth, the world, the cosmos, the all – it speaks. Constantly. In languages I cannot understand. In signs I can only begin to interpret.

 

***

 

A dirt path, densely covered in trees, connects me from the storm creek to the willow pond. It is on this trail that I saw the owl.

 

It was just before dusk in December. The owl perched on a branch hanging over the trail. To my surprise, she did not fly off when I noticed her or walked closer. She had downy brown and white features and round, blinking yellow eyes. Blinking, I later learned, is how owls communicate fear or warnings.

 

She let me observe her for a while before soundlessly swooping away.

 

***

 

In folklore, seeing an owl in the daytime is perceived negatively. But the way I see it, interpretation is imagination mixed with intuition. Negative doesn’t necessarily mean bad. And usually, the most uncomfortable things are the most worthwhile.

 

I saw the owl the same winter I decided to peel away old layers of scar tissue and peek at what lay underneath. My shadows had always been something I wore, like clothes. Opaque feelings to poeticize with ambiguous words. Never something to confront head-on.

 

The owl encouraged me to accept the darkness and examine it. Stare it right in the face. Trembling and blinking but not backing down. No. No more of that. You can’t run from something that lives inside you. The only way out is through.

 

 

Letting Go

 

In Alaska, autumn is short-lived. It’s all yellow and gold from the birch and cottonwood trees. The only purples or reds can be found on the mountainsides in the late afternoon when the sun rests on the tundra. Then the snow starts creeping down from the summits.

 

The Piedmont gradually eases you in and out of all the seasons. The trees get burned from the top down, a spectacular display of the changing light spectrum. One section will show fall, while the others remain in summer. A larger diversity of trees in the Piedmont puts on a vibrant display of color. Bright yellows, crisp oranges, bloody reds, and deep purples. They are a delight to paint with watercolors and a healthy way to obsess over tiny details. In my time, engrossed in the veins and changes in hues of fallen leaves, I discovered that there is beauty in change and art to letting go.

 

***

 

I never fully grasped what it meant to let something be until my crystal pulled a disappearing act on me.

 

I went for a long walk on a day when the sky was the color of robins’ eggs. The goldenrod was in full bloom, and the trees blazing red. The night before was full of serious reflection, and I felt lighthearted and content about everything. I strolled along the trail bordering the disk golf course peacefully, with a smile on my face. Then suddenly, I noticed my necklace clasp came undone, and my crystal pendant fell into the leaf litter.

 

The crystal, made of delicate rose quartz, came to me at a time when I needed a constant reminder of the love and compassion rose quartz represents. I’d worn it every day for years, never removing it once. It’d become a part of me.

 

Not only had the clasp never come undone before, but I couldn’t believe I’d witnessed the split second it occurred. I instantly dropped to my knees and began sweeping away the leaves. My heart started beating faster as my attempt to find what felt like a missing piece of myself became more desperate. It was useless. There were too many leaves. The crystal was gone.

 

As I felt myself on the verge of panic, a crazy thought flew into my head. So what? I didn’t want to let losing the crystal to ruin the day. I didn’t want anything to ruin this day. And what if this wasn’t random? After the past night of reflecting on how far I had come, literally and figuratively, I could see that the crystal had served me well. Maybe it is time for it to be discovered by someone who needed it more than I did.

 

I stood up and walked away.

 

***

 

Three months passed. Autumn completed its course. I’d accepted the crystal was gone, and I would never see it again. Then one day, I visited the same trail as I do so often. I thought about the crystal, and how light it made me feel to walk away. And then I happened to glance down at the exact moment before I stepped on something small and pink.

 

 

Reflection

 

 

 

Magic happens whether we see it or not. It’s all in the way you choose to look at things. Small, ordinary events only seem mundane until you open your mind. Then, the veil lifts. Childlike wonder is restored, complete with lessons in every observation, like how life is about transformation or how its flavor is bittersweet.

 

I don’t know how to conclude a story that’s still unfolding other than to say the place I never imagined myself in was exactly what I needed. That’s what happens when you follow your heart. But moving on is inevitable. Nothing will last forever, and neither should it. At least now I know it doesn’t matter where I go because the magic is also in me. Home is what you make of where you are.