Magic in the Backyard

Magic in the Back Yard

And so the dark December days are upon us and with the leaden skies and the chilly mists comes the sort of magic that only makes itself known in this short month.

It takes many forms, December magic: the fragrance of the evergreen wreaths outside the supermarket; the golden lights in the four o’clock windows of the inhabited homes up and down Main Street; the empty eyes of the big houses nearest the water; the covered boats asleep in the side yards; the bare trees tangled in wood smoke; the flurry of a snow squall eclipsing the sun; and that same sun disappearing by 4:30, all magenta and orange behind the bruised clouds.

On Christmas Eve, long, long ago, I looked out the dining room windows and up into the black sky and was sure I saw the glimmering Bethlehem star casting its otherworldly light over the shingled neighborhood rooftops. Magic, it seems, begets magic: there was a tree in our living room; stockings were hung on the mantel over the gas grate; there was oyster stew; and elderly aunts who stayed the night. I expected to see the star with all of that unusualness going on behind me, and see it I did.

So many years have passed and most of them I’ve forgotten to look out the window or stand under the midnight sky on Christmas Eve and find that star. I’ve been busy with the shopping, the gifts, the wrappings, the cookie swaps, the soirees, the general hoop-la, the personal angst. The real magic of December, of course, has little to do with all that. It’s in the solstice when day and night are equal; the first snow and the conversational caws of the crows; the slate-gray light of a Jane Austen afternoon; the aroma of homemade vegetable soup. It’s flannel sheets and cold fingers and scuffy boots and wood fires and deep breaths of clean, cold air; it’s buried deep in our hearts.

Whatever we’re looking for, we tend to find. In December, the wonder is right there in front of us in the dancing trees and the swirls of snow and the pale, ghostly moonlight. Or right there behind us in the memories of a warm house, a balsam-scented tree, elderly aunties, and exotic oyster stew. December speaks to the part of us that never gives up on miracles…asks us to bear witness.