Nights of Wonder and Magic

The clear skies on these sharp winter nights are spectacular. A couple of nights ago, I was out walking before sunset, and the sun, instead of being mired in haze, was distinctly visible as an orange ball, fiery and tremendous. Last night, I noticed a very bright and beautiful planet high in the sky after sundown, which must have been Venus, and on the way home from the coffeehouse, I was lucky to witness the rising of the Full Snow Moon, or Long Night Moon, or Oak Moon, whichever you prefer to call it.

I hadn't heard the December moon referred to as the "Oak Moon" until the other night. I was reading about this and about the Druids marking this moon by performing some of their special magic; the oak tree, of course, was sacred to them. Nights in early winter, according to this lore, are fraught with magic and mysterious events. Stack that on top of December's association with Saturnalia, and you really have the makings of a wild winter carnival.

Hecate, let the games begin. Your cell phone disappears. Your walls are suddenly alive with snapping noises in the predawn hours. Heavy footsteps overhead awaken you at 3:15 a.m. A mysterious current tinkles your wind chime in an enclosed room. People begin speaking loudly, as if they're confident they're making sense, while you're wondering what in the world they could possibly be smoking.

It seems to fit. I've known Decembers as peaceful as "Silent Night" and as surreal as anything by Hieronymus Bosch. It's partly the short days and long nights that set the spirits loose. Apollo, the god of reason and science, who's associated with the sun, is less prominent at this time of year, opening the door for other deities to have a go. I read an evocative description one time about what life was like before the days of gas and electrical lighting, when night was really night, dark and impenetrable, and the imagination gave birth to not only goblins but also fairies and sprites. The long nights of winter, with their bitter cold, howling wolves, and long shadows, still alive as an ancestral memory (unless we're from the tropics), were especially conducive to a free reign of fancy. Some of the dangers were real, and some were imagined, but which was which?

Of course we have the holidays, with all their glitter and cheer, songs, lights, and merriment, to chase away the shadows, or at least to remind us that in the midst of the darkest hours, life still thrives. At the Northern Hemisphere's darkest hour, the sun is actually making its turn (or we are, more precisely), and from that point on, the days grow gradually longer again.

In times past, people celebrated the holidays and survived winter by sitting around the hearth together. Many people still do, and I think they've got the right idea. One problem with modern life is a tendency for people to go their own way a little too much. We vaunt our independence, but at heart we're social creatures, and if we remember holidays from the past with a misty eye, it's because we remember the warmth and good feeling that come from being with family and friends. Companionship and good cheer completely transform cold December nights from a time of darkness to a time of celebration. It's what Scrooge found out the hard way, but, fortunately, not too late.

December is a time of battle between forces of light and darkness. Easy to give way to the doldrums, or to sadness, or to let the goblins in. But tweak your attitude a little, extend your hand to a loved one, light a candle, wrap a gift, or turn the shadows of a winter night toward a narrative that celebrates darkness and light (and gives both their due), and the spirit of the whole enterprise changes. I like Chris Van Allsburg's story The Polar Express for just that reason, because it honors both light and dark and sees the magic in their interplay.

For years I tried to write my own version of a solstice story that involved a forest, a snowy night, animals gathering, and festivities overturning the usual order of things -- sort of a Midwinter Night's Dream -- but I could never get it quite right. I had the atmosphere and the setting, but it seemed more of a tone poem than an actual plot. As I think about it now, I usually experience the magic of the season in just that way, as moments here and there, a fireplace, a favorite ornament, a perfect, unexpected gift, a midnight Mass, the taste of eggnog, the sound of a children's choir in the mall, or the face of a loved one, either near at hand or long absent and suddenly returning. It's only when you put them all together that you realize there's a story in them after all.

I'm trying to celebrate this season by looking for those kinds of moments as well as the little light that's always burning, even during (and perhaps especially during) the long nights of December. I hope you can find your own way to do the same, but remember . . . go easy on the eggnog.