I remember the tree. When you're five years old, a tree that has real pine needles and grows to be 30 feet tall before your eyes is magic, a window onto another world. That tree guarded the world of The Nutcracker, and in my fifth Christmas season, my parent gave me a passport into this land--a ticket to New York's Metropolitan ballet company production of the classic. For five years I returned, savoring every step of the experience from the glint of the gilded chandeliers to the hush of a carpet against Mary-Janed feet.

But when I turned 12, the magic failed. Peter Tchaikovsky's score failed to captivate--I found musical intoxication impossible without a beat--and sitting in the audience, I felt more like a babysitter than a dance afficianado. Eight years passed since I had last seen the curtain rise on a snowy night in Nuremburg and watched a petticoated-child journey through the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. And suddenly, this Christmas I found myself listening to Tchaikovsky's tale and thinking of how long it had been since dolls and tutus. I wanted to prove to myself that magic is created by lights and stage mechanics. So one night this week, I went back to see the tree.

The rain was sharp and relentless, and I almost decided not to go. Magic cannot return when your shoes are soaked. I had left the Mary Janes and holiday dress at home, in the photo album. I came in jeans and a casual sweater, but on my ears, I wore pearl earings; some habits are hard to break. I thought it would be different; in fact, I hoped it would be different. The culture of the holiday classic seemed somehow associated with graham crackers, Chutes and Ladders, and the trappings of childhood you don't retain. The little girl who had seen her first performance of The Nutcracker had been left behind in a flurry of cynicism and years. As I entered the Wang Center, I thought to myself how sexist the once-favorite fairy tale would seem, how archaic, how stupid.

But once I entered the theater, I forgot all this. Ticket clenched in my hand as I poked it out at the usher, I felt the once-familiar tremor of seeing a show. Beneath the domed murals of the main hall, people sipped champagne from slender glasses, and children were seen--not heard. Grandmothers' wrinkled hands locked with their grandchildren's small, pink fingers. Inside the theater was the matinee atmosphere I associated with The Nutcracker. Adults called across seats to one another, and children skipped up and down the aisles in a rush of anticipation.

Viewing the orchestra pit had always been a preview to the main show. The smooth screech of a violin tuning up, the shrill whistle of the flute called me to the edge of the stage. I slid between a girl cladin a plaid dress with a big bow at the neck and a young couple dressed in formal wear. The yellowed, dried-out score lay open on the conductor's podium--"Peter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky" it read in spidery-flowing script at the top.

The young couple smiled and waved at the conductor, returning to their seats to socialize. The little girl on my other side was still hanging onto the ledge which overlooked the orchestra. An elderly violinist looked up, saw the little girl, and waved her bow ever so slightly. She then looked at my friend and me, her face blank. We returned to our seats.

The room went gray; I blinked, and it was black. The notes gathered and transformed into the familiar overture. The curtain hung heavy. And then, just as the little girl behind me asked her mother, "Mommy, is it starting yet?" the curtain lifted. Large flakes of snow sunk to the stage where a chestnut seller, the epitome of a Victorian Christmas, was hawking his wares. Families and children paraded across the stage into the wings. The lights did not twinkle gold against soft blue-gray; the stage was just a stage, and all the dancers were players on it. The tree was nowhere to be seen.

The scenery rose up and revealed another set, the inside of the Silberius's house where son Fritz and daughter Clara were bobbing ridiculously in front of the key hole. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; the music was unfamiliar and still no tree.

Another set peeled back to reveal the Silberius family's opulent living room, and there was the tree--with huge felt leaves, looking like something we made in first grade and definitely not from a forest. My friend turned to me and whispered, "Pretty tacky."

The scene continued and seemed more like a Disney movie than a ballet. Clara acted like a petulent, spoiled brat. Her brother Fritz was even worse. The party--which I had always remembered as the height of elegance and high society--denigrated into a kindergarten dance festival. And over it all, the tree watched--chunky leaves and plastic ornaments.

But then, Dr. Drosselmeyer, the half-crazy inventor scientist who gives Clara the gift of the eponymous Nutcracker, entered. The clock went spinning 'round, lights flashed, time was transformed, and so was the show.

Drosselmeyer displayed for the company two life-size wind-up "dolls," which clicked across the stage. He presented Clara with The Nutcracker, Fritz obligingly broke it, and the party wound to a close. The adults went to bed, and the real Nutcracker--the one I had remembered--started. Once upon a time...Clara came downstairs in her filmy princess nightgown to check on her beloved broken gift.

The room grew larger, and with it the tree and my eyes. The mad doctor returned and covered the nutcracker with his cape. Boom, flash, I jumped inadvertently in my seat, and with the swirl of Drosselmeyer's cape, the nutcracker was real. And so was the magic; it was back. The battle with the mice started: squeak, bang, squeak, bang, and was over, sooner than I had thought. The mouse king writhed in simulated agony, pumped his feet down to the ground, waved at the audience, and the good guys had won.

Behind, a distinct, thin voice said, "Mommy is it over already?" But the scene was already shifting--snow returned, but this time it was graceful and slight. The Snow Queen and King entered the set, drawn by a sleigh with 12 reindeer. Some leaps and jumps later, Clara and the Nutcracker/Prince arrived. They were no longer the focus, however. They were the dream.

Every little girl in the audience becomes Clara and every little boy entertains princely notions. A journey through a winter dream world lies at the heart of every Christmas season--white wonder and warm beyond. The plot was laid and the rest was a travel log, a sight-seeing tour through the land of magic. Adulthood has no place here; common-sense is unnecessary baggage.