I know the place where the fairies sleep. Where bonfire sparks make the stars and witches walk.
I know the place where music lives and angels wait.
I know, because I saw them with my own eyes as a child. Colours shimmered, sounds too, and for hour upon hour the laws of nature were richer, deeper and mythical in their proportions. A world of fire and music and story, where the rules of magic reigned. These were not things that I tried to believe, but things I had seen, felt and known in my bones, that made me shiver up my spine, lit up from the inside by magic.
Christmas seemed to inhabit its own realm of magic – where everything was brighter, warmer, fuller, more delicious and abundant than your dreams. Where life glimmered and shimmered by candlelight, fairylight, firelight. When everyone I loved would be gathered in a room together, talking and laughing. Where grown-ups had time to play games in the middle of the afternoon by the fire. A time when music was all around, and piles of presents in shiny paper whispered promise. When every street sparkled with a thousand coloured lights, and driving home in the darkness, living rooms glowed with warmth and love and festooned trees.
And most magical of all, the portal of wonder, Christmas Eve, when I hung up a stocking, went to bed full of happy butterflies and came downstairs in the cold and dark, to be greeted by a bulging, odd-shaped container of delight, where I would dip my hand in to its Tardis-like proportions, fishing out pencils and books, magic tricks and bubble bath, golden chocolate coins and glowing clementines.
These weren’t times when I tried to believe. They were real visits to other worlds within the embrace of this one.
At this time of year especially I long to make magic real for my children. Or rather, to hold the space for magic to emerge for them. In truth I don’t know what lights the magic in their souls, what, in their modern and maybe jaded eyes holds the spark of a miracle any more, which memories have already fused themselves to their cortexes, to live there till they are grandparents. I do not know, but I make it my job, as much as I can, to expose them to magic and miracles – freshly falling snow by moonlight, carols by candlelight, wishing eggs in the woods which the fairies take away, gingerbread houses, bonfires and sparklers in the dark, tooth fairies and Santa Claus.
I kept this magic into adulthood. It truly only fell away this last couple of years, with tiredness, illness, too much work, too much pressure to do it right, not enough money or time, striving, striving to get it right, keep everyone happy, remembering all the details. My soul was stricken, Christmas had lost its glow.
So this year, I am re-lighting the magic of midwinter – it is not about quantity, but about the feeling of abundance. Music singing us into feeling and tasting love on our tongues. And light – candle light, fairy light, fire light, the sparkle of magic and hope in the midwinter dark and cold. The feeling of togetherness, of joy. Weaving magical memories, suspending the laws of mundanity and bringing magic to life.
Candlelight, fairylight, firelight… magic!
(Included in Celebrating Seasons of the Goddess.)
Meet Mago Contributor Lucy H. Pearce