The other evening I was standing in my backyard. The sky was cloudy and it was very dark. The wind was rushing through the trees with great urgency, the dry and dying leaves clutching to their branches. It was super loud.

The windows on my house glowed orange, casting a weird tint over the tree branches. It looked like there was something moving up there. Dark things. I thought back to Halloween nights, running down the sidewalks on Eau Claire’s west side. I remembered the trees, dark and scraggly. I remembered catching my breath and coming to a dead stop every time I saw something ... weird. And the wind. I remembered that, too.

Those are good memories. I wanted to feel those feelings again – the exhilaration of seeing something scary. But there in my backyard, the wind was blowing too hard, and the noise was filling my head. So I closed my eyes and took in a very deep, very slow breath. As I breathed out, I felt my body relax and get lighter.

And as the air escaped from my lungs – I kid you not – the wind just stopped.

All that roaring noise just up and vanished. My eyes popped open. The tree branches bounced back into position, and the leaves hung there, stuck in time. They waited.

I was shaken by the sudden change, and I quickly glanced around the yard. And up into the trees. What the hell just happened? It wasn’t just a change in the atmosphere. The world had shifted. Like magic.

Then, as if the earth just casually hit the Play button, the wind came back all at once. The weird feeling was gone.

I was shaken by the sudden change, and I quickly glanced around the yard. And up into the trees. What the hell just happened? It wasn’t just a change in the atmosphere. The world had shifted. Like magic.

Recently, I read a quotation from someone named Ellen Dugan. She said, “The spicy, musky scent of autumn rolled over my town, and I could feel the veil between the worlds getting thinner.”

I really like this sentence. At the risk of sounding kind of dorky (a first for me), I’ll admit the book in which Ellen Dugan wrote these words is entitled Seasons of Witchery. So feel free to take my affinity for the line with a grain of salt. And a bundle of sage. Unless you’re totally into witchery, in which case we should hang out and form a club.

Anyway, “the veil between the worlds getting thinner” is exactly what it felt like. I can’t explain it. I mean, I can explain the wind stopping. It’s autumn, after all, and that sort of thing happens all the time. It just happened to happen at exactly the right time, when I was totally yearning to feel something magical. I really lucked out.

Weeks later, the magic feelin’s are still with me, and they’re making me think about how we react to things we can’t explain. When you experience something unexplainable – and you’re not a well-trained scientist – you undoubtedly put your own spin on it. You make it what you want or need it to be. That’s some pretty interesting psycological-type stuff all on it’s own, but I believe there’s more to it. These little, unexplainable moments are very important because they make us pay attention. They make us think and use our brain in a way outside the normal routine, and this process helps us grow. Like when my grade school pal showed me the thumb trick.

You know the “thumb trick” right? It’s a bit of Super Easy Level Magic where you make your thumb split in half at the knuckle. It’s kind of hard to explain via the printed word, so let me just say this: It isn’t real. But from the right angle, to a young onlooker such as my grade-school-self, it looks real ... minus the squirting blood and intense pain that accompanies actual, non-magical thumbcapitation.

Out on the playground, when I saw this for the first time, my jaw dropped. I thought, “Finally! It has happened! I have finally witnessed something truly magical!” I felt like I’d been waiting my entire short life to see something legitimately unexplainable, and here it was in plain daylight. I was a bit heartbroken when I learned the truth, but since then, I’ve always had hope. I’ve always thought, “Maybe today I’ll see something totally strange.” And on certain days, when I’m not too distracted by stupid stuff, this hopeful attitude keeps me open, and I’m able to notice things I normally would not.

And also, to this day, I show that trick to the little kids in my life – and I try very hard to do it just right, because I know how important it is to feel completely mystified.

It begs the question, When you see something you cannot explain, is it magic? Part of me says, “No.” If you try hard enough for long enough, you can probably explain it, and the quest for truth is both noble and fun. Magic? No. Still awesome? Yes.

Meanwhile, another part of me (the part that’s wearing a wizard’s hat and carries a magic orb) says, “Yes! For what is ‘magic’ if not something we cannot reasonably explain? A ravishing confusion sparking the white hot hunger for knowledge. And once this magic is ‘explained,’ does it cease to be magic? No. It endures in the afterglow of discovery.”

The wizard hat-wearing part of me owns a thesaurus.

Either way, things we can’t explain are an essential part of life. I don’t care if you call that stuff magic or simply unstudied. Inexplicable things have always been here to dumbfound, amaze, and inspire us to act. Which is why it’s important to stay open to the world around you, and if you’re really serious about it, learn the thumb trick.

Email me if you want some pointers.