Christmas seems illusional, almost sleight of hand; a magic trick we pretend to get, hoping it won’t get out of hand. It gets out of hand, anyway, whatever we try to do.

Much relies upon firm belief, no reindeer could fly on its own. Though few believe in Santa and such, still we decorate our homes. We share the stories and swap the yarns without really wondering much, and often some magic seems to appear, leaving a remarkable touch.

It’s Christmas time, a season of warmth, the coldest of the year, a festival of lights through the darkest of nights, repeated every year. A magical misdirection we pull over on ourselves; no wondrous star, we travel far, unlikely elves.

We are the workshop, we are the sleigh, we become transformed, capable of kindness we rarely show, opening up our homes. We acknowledge ourselves as strangers and strangers as long-lost friends, we give and receive with equal joy, mail often sent.

Packages, we wrap with that paper we safeguarded through the year, half of the stuff in storage seems to contain our Christmas cheer. A few weeks before the magic show, we start setting up the stage. The goose gets purchased, cookies baked, without begrudging complaint. When the day arrives, we duly file into our roles. Our performances great, it seems never too late to soothe our errant souls.

Almost filled with wonder, then, great mystery reappears: we didn’t really need no Santa Claus supported by reindeers and a workshop overflowing with elves if we could only fool ourselves.

Merry Christmas!


©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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