One of my favorite books as a child was a now-out-of-print story called The Witch Who Lives Down the Hall (1985), which you can listen to and view here. In this book, a young boy is convinced that the woman who lives down the hall from him in his new apartment complex is a witch. Why does he think this? Well, she casts spells on a magic carpet (does yoga), whips up potions (makes soup), hosts coven meetings (reading and music clubs), has a black cat, and is basically loads of fun.

The thing is, the child is not wrong. His neighbor IS a witch, only not in the way we would think.

She is the embodiment of everyday magic. Everything she does is infused with mindfulness, joy, and a touch of enchantment, as seen through the eyes of a child who can find wonder and whimsy in all things. She might not make literal potions, but isn’t a bowl of soup the perfect healing spell when we need it? So she doesn’t have a flying carpet, but her yoga practice invites an elevated perspective. Then she has her black cat and we all know black cats are pure magic!

I was reminded of this story a few years back when two little girls moved into the apartment down the hall from me. I saw them watching me from the courtyard. They took in my black cat sitting on the windowsill. Caught glimpses of me on my magic carpet (I mean my yoga mat), and stole peeks through my window at the large collection of books that just had to be filled with spells. Most importantly, they were enamored with my patio garden that overflowed with herbs, flowers, and other wild, growing things.

Obviously, mine was a witch’s garden with ingredients for spellwork.

I caught them once, picking petals from roses I’d put out to dry and taking a pinch of this or that herb. They took their stash to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard and used it to make potions. They danced around the fountain and chanted. They poured water into cups and mixed flower petals and herbs into them, making up wild songs as they did so.

One day, the younger sister returned to collect more rose petals just as I came out to water my plants. The older sister, well, she did the big sister thing and ran straight up to my patio, worried they were in trouble for stealing my rose petals and herbs.

In trouble with A WITCH, no less!

They’d read enough stories, it seemed, to know they shouldn’t upset a witch even if they couldn’t resist stealing from her garden. Or maybe they just didn’t want to get in trouble with their parents for disturbing a neighbor. Who knows?

“We’re sorry for taking your stuff. It’s just we needed it,” the older sister quickly explained while pulling her sibling away from the patio. “We’re making spells.”

“What sort of spells?” I asked, and they knew they didn’t have to fear me.

Readers, they had A LOT of spells, and it was wonderful to talk with them about the stories and worlds and potions they were making. I also showed them what they could freely take from my garden. All the dried rose petals they wanted. Honestly, those dried roses were so pretty I didn’t want to throw them out, but I also couldn’t possibly keep them all. I showed them how to pluck green tendrils from my herb plants and explained why they shouldn’t pull the heads off fresh flowers. This ensured they had fun, but my garden didn’t suffer from their enthusiasm.

Hey, I’m a practical witch.

One afternoon, I found them chanting in front of my patio garden, with a stick in hand—a wand, no doubt—and splashing water from the fountain across my plants. My familiar was most curious, watching them through the window as they went about their witchy business.

I peeked out to see what the fuss was about.

“It’s a growing spell!” The eldest explained.

They noticed, they said, that some of my plants were looking a little ragged. Their spell was going to bring them back to life. Every day after school, they ran through the courtyard to check on their spell’s progress. I told them that sometimes spells take time. We’d chat, and they’d ask me questions about all sorts of things. About my cat. About my yoga mat. About the soup cooking on the stove—they smelled it in the hall on their way to their apartment. I could see, through their eyes, that I was much like the strange woman in the children’s book, with all sorts of mysterious things in my home filled with little enchantments.

About a week after they cast their spell over my patio garden, the tired plants started coming back to life. Did their spell work? Or did those cold-weather plants just get their second wind once the heat of the summer waned and cooler temperatures coaxed them back to life? Personally, I think it was their spell. They were certainly proud of their casting abilities, and I was happy to see my plants doing so well. And, eventually, when those girls moved away, I would think of them every time I gathered dried rose petals.

I will always remember the time I got to be the witch who lived down the hall.

It brought me back to when I was their age, reading that strange little book that taught me true magic is the everyday. It’s those small enchantments—intentional living, synchronous meetings, daily rituals—that make life magical.

It reminded me, too, not to take for granted the ordinary magic I’d conjured for myself. We can get used to things, the daily workings of our lives, so much so that we can forget what it takes to craft a meaningful life and how the simplest magic is often the most extraordinary. Magic isn’t in flying carpets and cauldrons. It’s in yoga mats and cast iron pots (although, who is to say which is which?). It isn’t in grimoires or crystal balls but in cookbooks and how the light dances off water in a fountain.

We forget, as we age, that magic is all around us. That we are magic. It’s inside us and all around us, no complicated rituals necessary. And sometimes, life gives us a gift—two little girls who remind you that you are, in fact, much more magical than you feel at the moment, or a woman who lives down the hall from you who must certainly be a witch—to show us that the enchantment we’re looking for is right under our nose.

And, truly, isn’t that what witchy business is all about? Everyday conjurings for a magical life.

As I gather pumpkins and hang autumn twinkle lights with my familiars—I have two now—in preparation for Halloween, I think about the joys of being the witch who lives down the hall. I think about the new stories yet to unfold, the ones that have nourished me over the years and the ones I will one day write, and, most importantly, which ones will jump from the page and into my life as this children’s story did. After all, stories are the deepest form of magic, and there is a quiet conjuring that happens when we find the medicine we need in the pages of a good book.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Threads. Here’s to a magical life!