Throughout history, artists and writers have given us various versions of the unicorn, an elusive and supposedly mythical creature. I say “supposedly” because I’m not real sure that they don’t exist. Some people claim to have seen them – sane, respected people such as Robert Vavra, whose beautiful photographs of these animals adorn many a calendar and fill his documentary book, Unicorns I Have Known. Many amateurs have taken hasty snapshots of unicorns they encountered unexpectedly but those photos are generally of poor quality and the authenticity is questionable. When I look at Mr. Vavra’s pictures, I come very near to total conviction.

Edward Topsell, in 1607, published The Historie of Fourefooted Beastes (they spelled funny in those days) and included the unicorn as an animal seriously believed to exist. The unicorn is also found in Greek and Roman literature as well as paintings of the Middle Ages. It is still a part of the British royal arms (along with an entirely non-mythical lion.) That fact alone is pretty convincing. Would any institution as dignified as the British empire seriously use such a symbol if it doubted its existence? Might as well believe they’d use Donald Duck.

Many writers have mentioned unicorns in a comparative way, as in “rarer than the unicorn” or “as pure as a unicorn.” If the thing they are comparing to the unicorn is real, then we must assume that the writer believes the unicorn is real, too. We’ve all heard the nursery rhyme, “The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown,” and maybe that anonymous writer didn’t really believe in unicorns. It is, after all, a nursery rhyme and we all know how fanciful poets are. Besides, he didn’t have the guts to sign his name, so who’s going to take him seriously?

Personally, I believe in unicorns because I choose to, and that’s all the reason I need. Let me tell you the benefits I get from maintaining this faith.

Unicorns provide me with a sense of magic, a much needed commodity in a world fraught with grim reality, overwhelming, technology, and mysteries of science.

Unicorns entice me to search for beauty and other rare gifts of life. Believing that one just might catch a glimpse of a unicorn while walking in a springtime field or woods prepares the senses for rare flowers, bright insects, tender mosses, lilting bird song, hurrying chipmunks, soft breezes, the smell of sunshine, and whatever other treasures lie in wait.

And, people seem to like the idea that I can believe in unicorns. I’m not sure just why, but it may be that, if I can believe in unicorns, they can be pretty sure that I will believe in them, too.

One of the nicest things that has resulted from my belief in unicorns is the joy to be found in sharing the secret with children. Years ago, when my adult children came to visit on weekends, their young children usually ended up in my care while the parents fished, hunted mushrooms, or pursued other adult pastimes. I cherished those opportunities with my grandchildren and tried to pursue activities that created happy memories for them. Lovely spring days were perfect for combining exuberant energy and fanciful adventure with a walk in our woods.

My recklessly referring to such a stroll as “a unicorn hunt” was almost accidental but turned out to be a serendipitous stroke of near-genius. The idea of watching out for signs of unicorns was much more intriguing to their young minds than were wild flowers, bird nests, or even the elusive morel (though I tended to hint that morels were a sign that unicorns may have recently passed through the area.) Some people may disagree with my methods of stimulating imagination in young minds, but I am the granddaughter of a rather fanciful Norwegian man on my father’s side of the family tree who knew about trolls and made children’s toys as a hobby, and of a grandmother on my mother’s side who was a descendant of Irishmen who firmly believed in leprechauns. What else would you expect?