Casual magic in Utrecht by Lara Gergely

Last summer, as I was visiting the Slovenian side of my family, I spent a week in Nova Gorica and Gorizia. In 1947, the Treaty of Paris abruptly drew a border between Italy and the former Yugoslavia, cutting off movement and exchange between the two sides and leaving the regional center, Gorizia, within Italy. In response, Yugoslavia constructed a new town across the border: Nova Gorica. The cities and their populations remained separated until 2004, when Slovenia joined the EU. Last year marked the first time that the title of European Capital of Culture (part of an initiative running since 1985) was awarded to a cross-border city, and the area was alive with events and exhibitions. My favourite one was an immersive experience in a park, where visitors had to collect music by scanning QR codes. The goal was to listen to the sound of Schumann and contemporary pieces by Slovenian artists in order to forge a connection between people and trees. During that hour I spent in the park, I felt truly alive, present in the moment and connected to something bigger than me.

"In a world that is constantly telling us that the only meaningful things come from huge achievements, it is truly revolutionary for you to be finding joy in the small moments. And your body knows it too: that the small things are truly magic". These are the words of UnJaded Jade, the content creator pseudonym of a young woman passionate about positive change, particularly reimagining a better education system and using social media as a force for good. Through her non-commercial podcast series called 'Finding Your Casual Magic', she has helped me fundamentally reframe the way I view my life. She describes the idea of casual magic as the power of finding beauty in the mundane, everyday. It is about presence and slowing down, which ultimately allows you to create space to listen to yourself and move through the world with more authenticity. 

I believe that there is so much casual magic in our campus life: the conversations with your unitmates when washing the dishes, the funny updates you exchange with your classmates during the five-minute breaks, the late-night walk from Voltaire to your unit, that one ray of sunshine in the cold and dark February week, hearing music and people laughing when walking by units, Maarten Diederix's cat greeting you through a window... But, lately, I’ve been wanting distance, from campus, from routine, from the expectation of constant engagement.

It is Sunday morning, and I am heading to the city by bike, where I will later have brunch with my friend Lucie before we go to study in a library. I cross Wilhelminapark. Nothing demands my attention, yet I hear multiple sounds drift past. Parents, children, students, dogs, runners: a living park. I soon stop by the tracks, just past the smaller Albert Heijn. It is not a main line with regular passenger trains. It is used by a heritage shuttle train that runs to Het Spoorwegmuseum. The train passes by slowly and feels almost ceremonial. It is a bridging passage between city life and a quieter, historical experience. The light turns green, and an empty bike lane stretches ahead of me. I am biking through Utrecht, and it feels as if I were being trusted by the city. I arrive at Neude and park my bike next to the library. Through windows, I notice people studying, dozing, reading newspapers. No one is performing, and no one needs to. I remember that the calm inside is not enforced; it simply exists, a gentle space for everyone to be exactly where they are. I am now sitting below street level on the steps of the Oudegracht. The city is still slow, delivery boats glide past, and I become a witness rather than a consumer. I get up and start walking. I notice tiny gallery openings in side streets, poetry taped to windows, street musicians practising, not yet performing. I don't attend any of these. I stumble upon them. I hear the Dom tower bells, and as I continue walking, I look up while a migratory flock flies above me in a V shape. I remember that time is communal. When I arrive at the café where my friend is meeting me, I realise I haven't done anything remarkable with my day yet, but nothing feels missing at this very moment. 

To be frank, nothing extraordinary needs to happen for life to feel full. If Nova Gorica and Gorizia taught me what intentional presence can feel like, Utrecht reminds me that presence is already available: on a canal step, in a park, on a bike lane, between two train stops, or in the quiet moments that ask nothing of us except that we notice them.