Journey of the Magicians
It is late, and I am sitting alone by the window, watching the snow fall on a midnight shift at the Children’s Home. The kids are all in bed and sleeping. The other night I dreamed I taught one of them how to hold fire in his hand.
Winter and darkness bring solitude, strange thoughts. The psalmist writes that night with night shares its knowledge. Above the obscuring clouds and the drifting snow the stars might appear to turn in hand with wandering travelers of long ago. At night we still wonder, what can it mean? What signify, the half-heard music above the hillside? To what destination might the lights make their way in the sky?
Winter’s darkness has fallen again. The earth on its axis is turned. In the fastness of night we remember the magi, imagine them murmuring to themselves while they poke about in their dens, kneeling at the hearthside stirring the embers and smiling in memory of another time when, on a foreign plain and in the company of shepherds, expending much enchantment, they drew themselves together before the child. The obscurities of prophecy had been made plain then in the skies breathing auroras over them, the air beat with wings on fire. And the stillness of it, the unearthly calm that had given voice to the question, so that we said aloud to one another, what have we done? What are we that we should be taken notice of so?