The Possibility of it All

That which Voldemort does not value, he takes no trouble to comprehend.  Of house-elves and children’s tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing   Nothing.  That they all have a power beyond his own, a power beyond the reach of any magic is a truth he has never grasped. –Albus Dumbledore

Credo

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” --Hamlet

Last week when my roommate who shares the upstairs of our tall townhouse with me was out of town, a few odd things happened.  Doors opened inexplicably and lights turned on without anyone flipping the switch.  What started as a fear of an intruder at 2 in the morning ended with me joking about a ghost.  I could come up with some reasonable explanations for it all that I mostly believed.   In the dark night while Meg was still gone, it was a little easier to believe in the creepiness of it all than the rational.   I’m pretty sure I’m still catching up on sleep from that week even though she’s been back for about a week.

“Someday you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” –C.S. Lewis

Some days I think it would be easier to not believe in anything beyond what you can see, certainly it would’ve helped me sleep better once I ruled out the possibility of an intruder in my home.  But I think easy ability to be creeped out is directly tied to my ability to believe in other unexplainable things.  I have a necklace that Jess got me for my birthday a few years ago which says, “I still believe in 398.2” (398.2 in the place in the Dewey Decimal System reserved for Fairy Tales.) and I didn’t think about it too deeply at the time when she gave it to me, didn’t really fully consider if it was deeply true in my life until this summer when I was teaching with Andi at CTY.  We finished our course with a study of fairy tales and, this year, with some portions of The Snow Child.  The novel, set in early 20^th century Alaska, brilliantly contrasts the harsh reality of life with a magical child, made out of snow, and given to a couple who needs her desperately.  As we were reading the book, one of the students sort of poo-poo’d the idea that a real, thinking person could consider this sort of reality.  For it was not like the show Once Upon a Time, where they clearly live in a different reality with different rules about magic.  This was our world, invaded by the faintest trace of magic.  And, while I don’t remember the exact words, I remember the gist of what Andi said to her, because it was brilliant.  She asked the girl if this world was like our world, and if, though it didn’t seem possible through the laws of nature, a fairy tale had maybe come true.  And if belief in that possibility, for a hint, for a trace, for a glimpse of the unexplainable, wasn’t a good thing in our world and in our lives.  I have no idea if it convinced the student, but I know it convinced me, and I knew that when I wore that necklace, that was what I meant by belief in fairy tales.

I don’t believe in them in a ‘you should maybe have me committed’ kind of way, but in a ‘there’s a power to certain things that goes beyond what we can understand or explain’ kind of way.  I don’t believe in fairy tales in a way that makes me think that a prince is going to ride up and kiss me awake or present me with my glass slipper and turn me from servant girl to princess.   Those parts seem to be the least important of the actual-non-Disnefied-version of the tales.  The common experience, the potential for magic, the touch of the unbelievable in your life, those are the important parts.

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.” –Norman Vincent Peale

Which brings me to Santa.   And if I believe in something slightly creepy in my house (I don’t actually believe in malevolent ghosts so I’m not sure what I think was happening there, but I know it made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck that first night) and in fairy tales and the potential for magic, it seems only logical that I should believe in Santa too.  Not the’ I think a fat man is going to come down my parents’ chimney tonight.’  Definitely not in the commercialized version or the “Santa is watching, so be well-behaved” kind of way either.  And not in a purely metaphoric way either.  I believe in Santa in a ‘Christmas is a time for the unexpected and unexplainable’ and the ‘this immense love doesn’t make sense’ way.  And I’m not trying to say that since God did this amazing, unbelievable thing, Santa is also real.  I’m not sure how to explain or describe it—somewhere between seeing him as a real person and trying to ascribe his attributes—generosity, kindness, love—to us all—that’s where I am. That the spirit of Santa can enter into our homes is maybe the closest. 

My soul proclaims the greatness of the world.  Holy is His name. --Mary

Because the more I reflect this Advent season, I realize that Advent is about waiting expectantly, and knowing that the miracle can happen.  And not just that it can happen, but that it will, and when it does it will be so totally unlike anything we ever expected because we can’t dream big enough or see far enough to get it right. (I also believe in the virgin birth.  No one’s surprised, right?)

I also think about the people involved, who are now like characters in an old story.  But I think about the little known—about Zechariah and Elizabeth who knew before anyone else that something was stirring in a different way than before, and that there baby was going to be special—special enough to wait until they were old and had lost hope.  And then hope not only flared, but blazed bright.  I think about the Magi who had no idea what they were going to find when they followed the star, but had the faith that it was important enough to leave everything else behind and find out what—or who—was the reason for the star.  

And this story, and others like it, are I think the reason that I believe in the other, smaller, signs of magic in our real, everyday life.  They’re a shadow, a hint, of the potential in this world—the potential for the unexpected, the unexplainable, the thing you never thought possible—to appear at any moment.  Ancient beliefs held that the barrier between the physical and spirit world was the thinnest at in-between points---the place where the ocean meets the shore; at midnight, when it is neither fully yesterday nor today; at the solstice when fall becomes winter. (And I know, we celebrate Christmas now because of its proximity to the solstice and that Jesus was probably born in the spring.  Great.  But today is when we commemorate it, so deal.)   Because for me, the thinnest moment is Christmas Eve when God became flesh, become Immanuel, became God-with-us.  Christmas Eve—that night that turns right into Christmas Day, when the angels sang, when the star started shining brilliantly—has always seemed the holiest and the most full.  Full of the possibility of it all.