Magical Woods

Where did the magic go?
When we were younger it seemed so easy, so effortless.
Christmas came into our minds like a magician practicing his sleight of hand: a single silver sleigh bell appeared between his fingers, multiplied, and then disappeared.
Where did it come from?
Where did it go?
Magic!

Maybe the first mistake we made was thinking that because we once thought we saw the magic, we could make the magic ourselves.
We certainly try.
Those same sleigh bells suddenly appear on our lawns, multiply, enlarge, and soon the night is ringing with sleigh bells, and is lit by a thousand tiny glowing bulbs, and populated with enormous electric reindeer and inflatable snowmen.
Few of us have the magician’s nimble fingers, so we compensate with quantity.
We console ourselves with the little white lie that says we are doing it for the children.
And certainly for the very young and innocent it is nearly wondrous to see the tree go up, the presents appear, the family arrive.
But we know better. And we know that we are doing these things for ourselves, as much as for the children.
We still long for the magic.
We still hope to be dragged away from our plans and procedures and made a witness again, an audience member, a waif with his nose pressed against the glass.

But the magician, good or bad, must take his pleasure in the audience’s reaction. Those drawn to the practice of magic, who endeavor to master the skills and learn the secrets, do so only because they really the want it for themselves, want to rediscover that feeling of awe and mystery.
The great Houdini spent years mastering tricks, dedicated himself to uncovering the spiritualist frauds that were common in his lifetime and yet, at the end of life, was desperate to find a way to communicate with departed loved ones.
Despite all he knew about the tricks of the so-called ‘spiritualist’, what Houdini desired most was to be tricked himself.
And so our most precious stories of the season are not about the innocence of children, but rather, about the forestalling of inevitable disbelief: stories of children who had vowed they knew better, had figured it all out, but were tricked nonetheless one last time
Stories of how Papa played Santa for year after year until the children began to catch on and, that year, it was arranged for someone else to comes to the door with a sack full of presents. The children looked at Santa, and then back at Papa, back and forth and back and forth, their eyes getting wider and wider.
We try, for everyone’s sake, to make the magic, and to feel it too.

The streets of our town are now bright with a thousand homes lit by the desire to recapture the old magic.
But let me just mention one, a display in what my son calls the ‘Magical Woods’, on Halfway Pond Road, a few hundred yards west of its intersection with Long Pond Road.
There you’ll see an unassuming Christmas display, simply a single illuminated tree and star: very easily missed if you’re in a hurry.
If you do slow down though, and take a good look, you’ll notice that the 8 foot tree is covered in meticulously placed red bulbs that, glowing brightly in its otherwise dark, isolated patch of wood, point upwards toward a simple white star floating ten feet above.
This display has an admirable –and all too rare simplicity.
There is also a sense of peacefulness, heightened by the absence of any other decorations nearby and the lack of any home or structure lurking in the background.
So though it doesn’t compare in size of wattage to many of the more ostentatious displays about town, if you see this little tree and star, you’ll remember it, and turning to look that way as you drive by again the next night you’ll find it perplexing, for no apparent reason.
The shape is the same the next night, the star above fixed and bright, the lights a constant blue.
But wasn’t it red, the night before?
On successive nights a sense of anticipation will build, as you head down the road and, quite unexpectedly, the lights are green this time.
Needless to say, each time you pass the ‘Magical Woods’, it is a surprise. Even if you guess right, you cannot be quite sure what colors you will see.
Will the colors be mixed?
Are there other colors, yet to be revealed?
Are there other stars in its firmament?
Do the colors change every hour, or every night, or every week.
What’s the rush: let’s wait and see.

Maybe the magic has never left, but has always been there, waiting for us to let go.
You begin by knowing how little you know, yet feeling a sense of wonder every day.
Gradually though, you come to think you’re pretty smart, that you can’t be fooled.
Then the colored lights flicker and you’re a child again.