When I go outside on these early summer mornings, the morning glories by my driveway are open for business. I always pause and whisper into their deep blue ear trumpets as I go about my day. Sometimes I tell them about my worries (that doctor visit!) or relay an intention for the day (I will be 100% present) or give them encouragement (entwine, you glamour girls of the garden).  I believe with all my heart that they hear and understand what I say. Just as I believe that there are huge pre-Raphaelite angels in the sky who peer into our lives and which Elon Musk’s satellites can’t detect. That I’ve left behind a ghost essence like a carbon footprint of the soul in all the houses I’ve ever lived in—and that you have, too. That simply thinking of someone can conjure a phone call or message from them.

Hasn’t that witchiness ever happened to you?

The material world itself ensorcells us over and over. Underground networks of fungi that communicate and collaborate for the good of all are surely magical, just as unknown phenomena in the skies continue to confound professional pilots, and ancient petroglyphs tell stories of the old ones that we still haven’t deciphered. In this season of tiny seeds that turn into magical beanstalks, I choose to believe in magic. It seems irrational not to.

Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth Journal. She was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.