Zero Abracadabra

I have recently discovered a serious condition.

I am not a doctor, so please don’t ask me for medical advice. But after years of careful observation, I am confident enough to give it a name:

Zero Abracadabra Syndrome.

You probably know someone who has it.

Maybe you tell them that you are excited about something.

“I started writing a book!”

They look at you.

“Why?”

You tell them you decorated your house for Christmas a little early.

“It’s September.”

Thank you, calendar.

You tell them you spent twenty minutes watching a beautiful sunset.

“It’s just the sun going down.”

Yes.

And technically, a birthday cake is just flour with small fires on top of it, but we don’t have to live like this.

People with Zero Abracadabra Syndrome have some very recognizable symptoms.

Eye-rolling.

Excessive seriousness.

Suspicion toward enthusiasm.

An unexplained need to remind everyone that they are being unrealistic.

And, in severe cases, the inability to recognize magic even when it is dancing directly in front of them wearing a sparkling hat.

Some people enter a room and bring magic.

Others enter the room and immediately ask:

“Who approved the magic?”

Those are the dangerous ones.

Not because they are bad people. They may actually be wonderful people.

They simply have zero abracadabra.

And that would be perfectly fine if they kept their zero to themselves.

Unfortunately, sometimes they don’t.

You tell them about a dream, and suddenly they become professional dream inspectors.

“Are you sure?”

“Is that realistic?”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Why would you do that?”

I don’t know, Susan.

Maybe because it makes me happy.

You show them something you created, and instead of seeing the excitement in your eyes, they immediately search for the tiny crack in it.

You tell them you are planning something special, and they react as if you just announced that you are adopting a dragon.

Actually, I would like a dragon.

But that is another post.

The strange thing is that we often give these people enormous power.

One comment.

One raised eyebrow.

One little laugh.

And suddenly we start questioning something that made us happy five minutes earlier.

Maybe it is silly.

Maybe I am too old for this.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so excited.

Maybe my idea isn’t good enough.

And there it goes.

Poof.

No wand required.

We just allowed someone with zero abracadabra to walk away with some of ours.

I think we need better security.

Not fences.

Not alarms.

Not a large guard dog wearing sunglasses.

Although I admit that would be impressive.

We simply need to understand that not everyone has to understand our magic.

That is one of the most freeing things I have learned.

If something brings you joy and doesn’t hurt anyone, it doesn’t need a committee meeting.

You don’t need twelve signatures.

You don’t need permission from the Department of Acceptable Happiness.

And you certainly don’t need approval from someone whose emotional response to a rainbow is:

“It’s just light refraction.”

Yes, Professor.

We know.

Now please move. You’re blocking the rainbow.

Magic doesn’t always mean something enormous.

Sometimes it is drinking coffee from your favorite cup.

Buying a notebook even though you already own eleven notebooks.

Taking a picture of a leaf because this particular leaf is obviously different from the other 4,000 leaves you photographed last autumn.

Putting Christmas music on suspiciously early.

Dancing badly in the kitchen.

Writing something nobody asked you to write.

Laughing at a joke that isn’t particularly clever.

Looking forward to something small.

Believing that ordinary days can still surprise you.

That is abracadabra.

And as adults, I think we sometimes become embarrassed by it.

We learn to act reasonable.

Practical.

Serious.

We hide our excitement because someone might think we are childish.

But I don’t want a life where everything has to be useful before I am allowed to enjoy it.

I don’t want every dream to arrive with a spreadsheet.

I don’t want every happy moment to pass an adult inspection.

Some things can simply be wonderful.

Of course, there will always be people who don’t understand.

Let them.

They don’t have to clap.

They don’t have to join.

They don’t even have to believe in the same things you do.

But they also don’t get to decide whether your magic is real.

That part belongs to you.

So protect it.

Keep a little excitement for ordinary mornings.

Keep doing things that make absolutely no sense to people who have forgotten how to play.

Keep your strange traditions.

Your impossible ideas.

Your ridiculous enthusiasm.

Your eleven notebooks.

Okay.

Buy the twelfth one.

I am clearly not here to stop you.

Life gives us enough serious things without our volunteering to make everything else serious too.

So when someone arrives carrying a giant bucket of Zero Abracadabra, don’t argue with them.

Don’t try to convince them.

Don’t organize an emergency seminar called Why My Happiness Is Valid.

Just smile.

Take your magic.

And keep walking.

Because your life doesn’t need to make sense to everyone.

It just needs enough little sparks to make it feel alive.

Keep your magic.

Protect your abracadabra.

And if someone brings zero of their own…

please don’t let them borrow yours.

GK