Skye Magic

I don't believe in magic.

I believe in the possibility of shifting weather that allows us to wake to a sweep of blue sky and unveiled mountains.

I believe in the majesty of a landscape quilted with blooming heather.

I believe in time, the time it takes for a slow seepage of magma to push through the earth's surface, and the eons of erosion, grain by grain through wind and water.

I believe in humility. In the ability of the mountains to diminish not only my stature, but my importance in the great systems of the earth as well.

I believe in the serendipity that brought us here, rather than there, at this moment.

I believe in wonder, the slack-jawed passage I made, stopping to look, to breathe, to be, to listen to the wind on the high mountain, the roar of water, and the piccolo of a rill rushing across stones.

I believe in the lessons this landscape has to offer and willingly let it instruct me in awe, patience, and the power of wind.

Call it magic if it sounds like that to you. Me? I call it gratitude for the world unfolding just the way it does and for my own capacity to witness it all.