Pop 89: The Twinkle Zone

By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com

Some of us are old enough to remember the tv series The Twilight Zone. I can still hear Rod Serling give his clenched-jawed introduction: “There is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call The Twilight Zone”.

I’ve been thinking about this zone lately. In Greek mythology, the transitional time and space is watched over by the guardian gods called numen. They stand watch over doorways, crossroads, at the base of ladders, on the edge of wharves. In Catholicism, the numen show up as Guardian angels. In Hinduism, the elephant-headed god Ganesha watches over us. In Indigenous traditions, our plant spirit-relatives sage and sweetgrass, when burned, smudge us through transitions as well.

My experience of the twilight zone is less ominous, and without the horror, Serling imbues it with. In fact, it’s just the opposite; the mysterious times of dusk and dawn, between imagination and the material world, I refer to as The Twinkle Zone. There is an art to finding oneself in The Twinkle Zone - it requires being open to “marvelling.” Other words for “marvel” are “wonder” and “awe.” They are capacities we’re born with and which spring into action easily in children, which is why I reiterate that we need Christmas as much as the kids, who already know how to marvel. Yet, if not encouraged to strengthen their habit of wonder, our poor young’uns can loose it and grow up whiny and grumpy, like their parents (or their aunty) who, perhaps, spend too much time watching horror movies or the catastrophizing news or scrounging for an extra buck - all behaviours which ultimately enforce a habit of bitterness, trepidation and suspicion. The Twinkle Zone, however, is readily available: wait til the sun has just set and head out for a walk. In these parts, the snow covers the ground and ice crystals twinkle in the air with a warm blue hue cast over everything. Every fifth telephone pole twinkles with a lit-up star or tree or candle. You can head south, and past Maurice’s glittering grove covered in hoarfrost and walk along the frozen river and count the thousands of footprints of busy critters meeting and crossing each other - bunnies, deer and coyotes, grouse, owls and ring-necked pheasants.

Or you can head toward town past the two elevators that look like cathedrals in the glowing frost. You can stop and stare at the simple strings of lights stitching buildings together. Then turn down the alleyway toward the Beauchamp garden plot, which is now a little wonderland of Christmas characters- Santa, Mrs. C. and reindeer in different configurations: loading sleighs, piloting a motorboat, taking off in a prop plane. If that doesn’t restart your twinkle engine - well, then it’s time for a bone fide Christmas miracle. Which is what happened to me.

I’ve been planning this trip to Medicine Hat to unite with my siblings since the summer. Like everybody else on the planet, the last couple of years has made it nigh impossible for family gatherings. At one point over the fall, I realized I would need new headlights - the dust and wind had basically sandblasted my present pair, and now the bulbs were burning out. With help from various local mechanics - a farm town always has plenty to choose from - I found a website that could send new headlights to Medicine Hat for half the price than a PO Box here. So I sent my new headlights on ahead of me.

Then the battery died. Ok, I’ve been lucky it lasted this long. I got Page to give me a lift to Swift and bought a new one. Then I asked Glenn Baxter, a local jack-of-all-trades, to make me his unofficial apprentice and watch me as I installed the battery to make sure I did it right. Everything seemed perfect. Then yesterday, after loading my car with the forty-odd library books to return, I went to start the engine and zip. Nothing.

I humped the books over to the library and sobbed story to Judy and Catherine. Most folks I whined to surmised my problem was my alternator. Great. I don’t have time to order one, and I can’t afford a new one, anyway. But somehow, I got calm and chose not to succumb to the fatalistic conclusion that I’m not going to spend Christmas with my siblings and their various spouses and my buddy Avril, who is flying to join us from Toronto. A goofy voice in my head sang: “Nono Madonna, don’t worry. There’s a Christmas miracle around the corner.” My sister Jody and I half-joke about how, every year, there’s always a Christmas miracle, and I hadn’t had mine yet. I tromped over to Glenn’s just as he was returning from repairing something. He was willing to come over and see what’s up as snow starts falling and the temperature drops. Luckily he travels with a heat lamp hooked to a propane tank. Carefully we begin troubleshooting under the hood with a tiny lamp that hooks to various possible sources of energy draw. I’m enjoying the process, which reminds me of the days back in art school when my pal Mike taught me how to weld and solder.

After two hours and many shared stories of Christmasses past, we find it: the dome light. Glenn removes the fuse, recharges the battery, and voila! I’m going to Medicine Hat after all. Only this time, I’m going with a renewed twinkle and a story of appreciation for community and a lesson in willingness to suspend worry and cussing and reach instead for The Twinkle Zone. May you stay in the zone this season, and may it recharge your battery enough to last the year!