Edie has a dream and that dream is to fly.
She sits in front of the TV and watches Peter Pan and Wendy fly across London to Neverland and then turns to me and says,
"Mummy, I wish I could fly"
(for the hundredth time) and the desire to prove to her that wonderful things can happen to little girls like her is overwhelming.
Heaven knows, if I could help her achieve her dreams I would. I'd find those fairies, cast those spells, make that magic. I'd love to have a pocket full of pixie dust.
But although I can't wave my wand and turn her world into a fairy tale I can help her find her own kind of magic. The magic of the great outdoors, the magic of story telling and books, the magic of make believe and play, the magic of creating things that come from inside yourself and blossom out into the world like little miracles.
These things are the real magic of life. The bedtime book, the woodland walks, the game where we're both horses, the stories that she makes up and I write down, faithfully, word for word.
Don't you remember the magic? The feeling of Christmas Eve, of swimming in the sea, of hiding in a closet to read the book you were hooked on. The world was full of possibilities and miracles. Anything could happen. Make your own magic.
I tell her every day that if she tries really hard and practices enough then she can do anything, be anything. Because I believe that she can, and there's magic there, in that.