when fantasy takes wing

A week ago tomorrow I was strolling along a sunlit dappled wooded path near a mountain lake, chatting with my daughter about the high-epic fantasy daydreams I used to engage in during the hours I spent roaming the woods near my house when I was her age, which just goes to prove what a complete dork I used to be, envisioning (hoping, really, since high school was such a boring place to be) faeries, elves, dwarves and dragons cavorting in the wooded hills of northern New Jersey. I mean seriously, everyone knows the Fey live in Ireland, Elves have taken over the forests of New Zealand, dwarves really prefer the Himalayas and since the dragons were banned from snacking on stray humans, they've sulkily retired to the Caucasus Mountains, sustaining themselves on mountain goats and the occasional rock climber.

A week ago tomorrow my daughter and I emerged from a shadowy stand of pines into a bright meadow that was clearly an abandoned farm as it was full of rogue corn stalks, sunflowers, milkweed, cattails and wildflowers. Tall stalks of plants swayed together as a gentle wind teased them and the colors gleamed green and gold and yellow in the bright sunlight. Dragonflies and butterflies flitted among the flower heads, delirious in their bounty.

It was an enchanted place, filled with the sounds of crickets and birds and rustling leaves.

For a few moments we stood there, amazed at the unexpected surprise. A farm gone wild.

As we began walking on the over grown path, our steps in the tall grass disturbed the silence and suddenly dozens of monarch butterflies lifted from their hidden perches among the stalks to circle and dance around our heads. With every step we took, dozens more, along with other colorful butterfly friends that had been hidden in the foliage, took wing.

We giggled and twirled around, drinking in the wonder of the flashing colors, as butterflies and dragonflies danced on the air.

Fantasy may be hard to find these days but sometimes, if you're lucky, it finds you.