The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
― W.B. Yeats
I know, he said, his face uncommonly solemn. Griffin nodded towards his elves, artfully clothed and arranged with their arctic pets on the coffee table in his living room. Oh, sweet boy, I thought, and for a moment, my words caught in my throat as I struggled for the right thing to say. For I knew how much he loved these elves, how, over the years, he’d painstakingly written letters to them requesting permission to touch them (forbidden in the world of Elf on the Shelf) and for them to return throughout the year (because he missed them so). I knew how the magic burned bright and true in these little elves and how its passing signalled a end to an era. Of course, I knew it must end, as the magic of all childhood fantasies generally ends. But just as with my children, I couldn’t help but wish for one more season in which all things seem possible. In the end, I said nothing but pulled him in for a hug.
Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef, writes American novelist Tom Robbins. I think Robbins is on to something here. How do you put into words the wonder, the absolute glory of magic? Even as I attempt to write this post, I’m painfully aware that I may be trying to finesse mystery and enchantment with a sledge hammer. Still, I’ve convinced myself, one must try. Because although we pull out all the stops during Christmas, dressing our homes and lives with the magic of the season, we tend to pack it away with the ornaments we stow in our attics. We ring in the New Year with resolutions about all sorts of practical things: health, time management, budgets and relationships. Out with wonder and in with self-improvement. So, I’ve convinced myself that even though my attempts to promote magic may be artless and oafish, they aren’t misguided. When it comes to the art of magic appreciation, most grownups are amateurs.
Oh, I know that keeping the magic of elves (and other things) alive is not for the faint of heart. It requires planning. It takes creativity. It often means rising earlier or staying up later. In short, it’s work. I’ve heard parents complain that such work is just one more holiday obligation, one that compounds their already large list of things to do before December 24th. But I’ve seen friends create incredible elf tableaus from household things: elves skiing down bannisters, swimming in bowls of marshmallows, ziplining from light fixtures. There is much magic at work in the creation of these tableaus. Worth the time and work? Those of us who are big fans of magic will respond with a hearty yes it is! After all, as Tom Robbins argues, [d]isbelief in magic can force a poor soul into believing in government and business, and no one wants that.
In his novel, A Hat Full of Sky, Terry Pratchett writes that [i]t’s still magic even if you know how it’s done. Years after I learned the truth about Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny–after I understood how it’s done–I held fast to their magic. I still do. In his famous editorial, “Is There a Santa Claus?”, Francis Pharsellus Church responded to Virginia, an 8-year old who really wanted to know if Santa Claus was real. Church concluded his response with these words:
You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. [The Sun, Sept. 21, 1897]
We may know how it’s done and may tear it apart to see what makes it work, but Church reminds us that there is nothing else real and abiding but the unseen world which no one can tear apart. Thank God, he claims, the magic lives forever!
Frances Hodgson Burnett offers some sage advice in her children’s classic, The Secret Garden:
Of course there must be lots of Magic in the world . . . but people don’t know what it is like or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. I am going to try and experiment.
This sounds like the kind of experiment I can get behind. When I forget what magic is like or how to make it happen, I can just say nice things are going to happen until I can actually make them happen. And if I can’t make them happen? Well, there will be a lot of magic in all the proclaiming and hoping. One of my granddaughter’s favorite authors, Kate DiCamillo, believes that hope and magic are probably connected. I have an unusually active imagination and a generous capacity for hope, so I begin my experiment with optimism.
On the evening that Griffin revealed to me that he knew about the elves, I gave him the elf clothes and the elf pet that I’d previously planned to smuggle into his house. Even armed with newfound awareness, he was excited to dress his elves in their new duds and place their new pet in the menagerie. As he worked, he said: Grandma, I just thought you should know that I know the elves came from my mom and dad’s closet–not the North Pole. Thank goodness it’s just the elves and not Santa! Ain’t that the truth!
