If you read this blog for more than a couple of days, you will find that I am English.
I moved to California on October 30, 1996.
Seat 49C, Virgin Atlantic flight # VS019 arrived at SFO at 2:50pm to be exact. Not that it was significant or anything.
Five years prior to that or maybe ten, I bought a dress from Marks & Spencer, a flagship British High Street chain.
It was a floaty, swingy, summer dress with tiny flowers printed on it.
I loved that dress.
It was loose, which meant I could gain a few pounds and hide them. It had crinkly fabric, which meant I didn’t need to iron it. It hid. My knees.
I wore that dress over and over for many years but fast forward to 2008 and it was time to say goodbye. It had been worn to death and reincarnated several times but it was now finally the end.
My crinkly dress became a rumpled mess in my upstairs bathroom wastebasket.
One day, last May, a certain friend named Michelle met me. It was our school rummage sale clean-up rave.
The day before we’d had great success, pulling in thousands of $$$. Doing what it seemed the Governator himself could not – raise money for our children’s education.
Michelle invited me, in her silky way that reminds me of the finest, creamiest chocolate, to clean up books. She insisted I also take home something I fancied.
Initially, I demurred.
Frankly, rummage sale leftovers aren’t very inspiring. But boxing up books isn’t terribly thrilling either. So I decided to take her advice.
I walked around the toys but pieces spilled from puzzles. I walked around the media section but all the Grateful Dead (this is California we’re talking about) CDs were gone.
And then. Gasp. I stopped.
My heart. My lungs. The world.
For there, on a hanger, was a very familiar-looking dress.
Surely not? Could it be? I don’t believe it!
5,000 miles and 17 years later, there, at a rummage sale in California, USA, was an identical floaty, summer M&S dress with tiny flowers printed upon it.
I have worn that dress many times in the year since. And told many people my story.
It makes me, and them, smile.
You see, magic happens in the unlikeliest of places; where it’s dusty and dirty and cold.
Our school rummage sale appears a rare place for magic and wizardry. But, as my story shows, if we can spur ourselves into action, accept the hands we’re offered, life can make Harry Potters of us all.
Where is the magic in your life? Can you see it? Are you doing anything to cast some spells, transfigurate yourself or otherwise undertake some sorcery to switch things up?
I am participating in a Blog Every Day For 30 Days Challenge advocated by Chris Brogan. I am doing this with the lovely Mary Ulrich who writes for Parents and Caregivers of Adults with Disabilities at Climbing Every Mountain. Check her out!