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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade #1097973 added September 24, 2025 at 11:58am
Restrictions: None
Enchantments
Prompt:
"I do not understand how anyone can live without one small place of enchantment to turn to."
Write about this in your Blog entry today.
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Enchantment can be fairy tales, photos of my beloved, the image of my last cat, a memory, a couplet from a poem, the sound of the last notes of a favorite music piece, or anything that means something to me.
Once, when I was a child, I picked a small pebble worn smooth from the top of my great-grandfather's grave and kept it as my good-luck charm, and then, in times of trouble, I held it in my hand, feeling its surface, imagining that my great grandfather was comforting me.
To this time in my old age, my enchantments are subtle; yet, they are like spools of shimmering thread that weave magic through my days. I suspect, therefore, most of us, deep down inside, need a refuge where our souls can breathe after the monotony of the errands, obligations, and the machinery of our everyday lives. This may be because the human spirit can wither if it can find no water to keep it alive, the water from its secret well of comfort and wonder.
Most of the time, those wells of enchantment need not be lavish or luxurious. Simple places--such as a quiet chair inside the back porch to watch the setting sun when it drapes itself in golds and reds, a walk through the woods where the air smells of pine and silence, or the hush of a library aisle scented with old paper--may become doorways into realms where my mind changes what's ordinary into extraordinary. I know this when it happens because, in such places, time slows, the world shows its deeper, gentler mysteries, and I feel loosened with my perspective restored. In other words, my weary heart finds renewal.
Then, inside this feeling of renewal, birdcalls become prayers, raindrops turn leaves into chalices, the setting sun and the shifting shadows become a secret language meant only for me.
These enchantments are openings into a world that listens, hears, breathes, and shows what's hidden inside the noise of my days. This is when my heart loosens its grip of its burdens and weariness, and time bends into something timeless and tender.
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