For hours on end, I sang and sang to the empty garden bed until my throat went dry and my songs started to sound more like a flailing cat.
Warty bumbled out to check on me. Based on his squeaks, he thought I had been injured. Or was already dead.
Wonderful.
I went to another garden bed. Here, there were leftover marigold roots that outlined the entire patch of earth. These flowers were notoriously easy to grow and could thrive in most conditions. An ideal companion plant to protect more vulnerable crops. It shouldn’t take much magic to coax them.
I sang, I did all my old tricks.
And still…
Nothing.
The day wore on, the sun beat down on me, Hesper loomed over me like a menacing shadow, and I was at my wit’s end.
“Maybe it’s just not working today.” I pouted, plopped down on the ground, and rolled onto my back, looking toward the sky. Even though I hadn’t managed to expend magic, the constant reach for it had still tired my muscles, whittled me down to my very soul.
“Maybe you need to let go…” Hesper offered, lying down next to me.
“I have let go!” I said defensively.
“No,” Hesper said with a small laugh. “You haveacceptedthat you have magic. But you’re still trying to grasp at it. Force it. Just let it flow.”
“I don’t know how,” I said, covering my face with my hands. I thought I had let go.
Let go of the idea I didn’t have magic.
Let go of Hesper, too.
“Remember, heart magic is the practice of weaving, of beginnings.”
“What does that even mean? That sounds cryptic and ethereal. Can you put it in a metaphor or something?” I begged just a bit.
“Hmm,” Hesper mused. “Look at it like this: heart magic is the same type of magic that’s in a basket of yarn.”
Where in the world was she going with this?
“There’s an entire world in that basket. You could make it into anything, you just have to pick up your tools and have an idea. Or like your writing. The greatest stories of our time were once just blank pieces of paper.
“Heart magic taps into the inherent alchemy present in anything. Because that’s what love does, too. Two people passing each other is a daily occurrence. Until the comets and stars and time align, and then two people pass each other and fall in love. Out of all of the people in the realm? Just think of how many billions of small, nothing moments led to that? That’s real magic.”
My heart melted into a puddle; the grip I’d had on it earlier this morning loosened just a bit.
“Yes, it is magic,” I said softly, looking at Hesper. She turned toward me, her amber eyes shining.
Knitting magic was something I could understand. Just like seeds—all potential. It wasn’t about holding on to the magic, it was redirecting the flow, reformulating the plan. Working from a place of abundance rather than scarcity.
Without another word, I got up, strode back over to the pumpkin patch andtried.
I didn’t sing, I didn’t coax. Instead, I closed my eyes, and I listened.
The world outside shut out. All I could hear was a gentle whirring inside of me, like a babbling brook.
Grow, I encouraged.
Visions of plump pumpkins toppling over the side of the garden bed filled my heart.
Grow, I said again, leaning into the flow of magic. I didn’t grasp hold, I just let it go.
