this little tree of ours

 

We spent no more than 10 minutes at the tree lot. The day was bitter cold, inviting us to shop quickly. We know what we like and we keep it simple - Fraser fir, about 7 feet high. This one looked perfect, laying at the top of a small stack of trees at our regular pop-up sales site in a nearby parking lot. We didn't even ask the vendor to untie the tree; as I said, it was dang cold, but honestly it is more because we are easily pleased - the two of us subscribe a bit to the "Charlie Brown Christmas tree" school of thought, in that we trust we can beautify whatever tree awaits. We will love it. 'Tis the season to be content, to be joyful. 

The vendor lifted the tree from the stack and lots of needles rained down. Here's where we really are a goofy twosome, Tony and I - we immediately assumed that those dropped needles had fallen from some other tree that had been stacked on top of ours, during its journey in the truck from who knows where (Canada?), and basically littering our tree. Our tree was just shaking these loose, now that it was able to stand up and apart, right? The vendor didn't dispel or challenge our thinking. They say humans can rationalize pretty much anything they want to believe; I suspect this is all the more true when questioning your beliefs means you must suffer out in the cold for longer.

As Tony paid the vendor, I pointed out the praying mantis egg sac on the tree, thinking this was a good luck sign; but my admiration wasn't understood by the dear vendor, who immediately grabbed the sac and hurled it out of the lot, apologizing. "Oh no! I thought it was good luck," I said, "Certainly, it's a sign that the tree was growing happily and healthily." The vendor looked at me with some confusion, and then helped us tie the tree onto the roof of our car.

Fast forward, 
this little tree of ours
is set up in our living room and it is seriously one of the most beautiful trees we have ever had! 

It is so full - truly, chubby, yes, a chubby tree,

taking up lots of space in this small room. 

There was the tiniest soft downy bird feather within its branches - 

another sign of how loved this tree was as it grew. 

Fast forward, 
this little tree of ours
is decorated with lights and all our sentimental ornaments, collected through the years. 

I just smile smile smile at this tree. 

It is lovely.

Fast forward,

this little tree of ours,
it sheds needles. 

Loads of needles.

Fistfuls of needles.

Full dustpans of needles
Every. Single. Day. 

The first couple of days, it drank so much water. Then, it just stopped drinking. These trees - are they not a lesson in death? My goodness.

As each day passes, I see the tree hollowing out, from within - though it remains bright happy green, at a glance. Let me share a photo of the "inside" - today:

Yes, it is hollowing.

We will just barely make it to Christmas, this Saturday. 

Four more days, little tree, just four more days!

Each morning as I sweep the needles, I feel nothing but tenderness and understanding for this tree. Honestly, I totally empathize. 

I ask, could there be a more perfect tree for 2021? 

I appreciate its attempt to reach out wide, fully, as if giving us a big jolly happy hug, 

mesmerizing us with its girth, 

I feel it commending us for living through yet another long, hard year, 

for doing our best in these challenging times, and 

I appreciate how, like a good friend might also do, it just cries cries cries alongside us.  

A tree of solace. 

Happy Solstice, everyone! 

#verselove - 12: Trees of silence

For the month of April, I am participating in 30 days of #verselove poetry writing with Dr. Sarah J. Donovan's Ethical ELA. 

Today's poetry inspiration was by Penny Kittle, who also provided a one-hour poetry webinar. She suggests using a phrase or a line from another poet and writing into this, seeing what surprising story comes up. She shared the poem Elementary by G. Yamazawa. This is a powerful poem and many lines reverberated for me; I wrote into his phrase "how deep the trembles are felt."

Trees of Silence

there’s a space between 
lightning and a clap of thunder
that is eerily silent
I’ve gotten used to this
though I still want to hide

it is more rare and ominous 
when lightning strikes a tree 
one hears an immediate wrenching crack 
wood split in two
followed by what feels like 
piercing
heavy 
overwhelming quiet 
before the massive tree topples to the ground 

everything reverberates
everyone sees 
everyone understands 

mystery solved

this is how your silence felt,
me the ground
waiting for
a felled tree
achingly
on top

I need to believe
you had no idea
how deep trembles are felt

you wielded a weapon of
cutting
unending
eviscerating silence
by not speaking to me
did you aim for my heart?

you left me 
twisting
terrified
tormented
what did I do?
why is Mommy mad?
how can I fix this
silence

I have learned 
not to grow
trees of silence

seeds you planted
I try to dig them out of the ground 
before they take root

a raw hurting silence
I just know
I just know
I just know
something is painfully wrong

SOL21 Slice 28: From the ashes

 

I am participating in the

 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL21).  

All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 

 every day for the month of March 2021.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

No one was around when I slipped into the portico, found the small box and fished out the little dime-size plastic baggy, which I quickly zipped into my jacket pocket, and then I continued on with my run. If someone had seen me, they may have been somewhat suspicious - what was I up to with such furtive movement? Well, to collect ashes for celebrating a virtual Ash Wednesday . . . that was some five weeks ago, the start of Lent. Today is Palm Sunday, and I breezed by the church portico again to pick up palms, to wave from our couch during the virtual service. Yes, it is a little - or a lot? - strange to be experiencing Lent in this virtual way, yet - in the big scheme of things, isn't it remarkable how we are persevering? 

We are finding new ways.

Lent has meant more to me than it has in many, many years. It's emphasis on wilderness, sacrifice, and loss has been especially poignant during this season of pandemic. This Lent is also the first without both of my parents - and I have been flooded with memories of my Catholic childhood, the strict observance of all the rituals and traditions: 

• Fat Tuesday where I ate all the naughty things I intended to give up during Lent, 
• followed by Ash Wednesday and ashes in the sign of the cross on my forehead, 
• meatless Fridays (this is such a non-issue for me as an adult - I rarely eat meat on any day), 
• praying the rosary,
• Palm Sunday (this was the LONGEST Mass, oh my, oh my, I'd adjust my sitting position on that cold, hard pew over and over and there was no mercy, no escape, the readings went on and on and on), 
• foot washing on Maundy Thursday, 
• stations of the cross on Good Friday (the only day of the year that Mass is not celebrated; I really enjoyed this service, with almost a 'story-telling' of the life and crucifixion of Jesus)
• ending with Easter Sunday service, where I always wore a nice, new, spring Easter dress. 

I stopped practicing Catholicism in college and, although I still consider myself Christian, all these rituals and traditions pretty quickly became a thing of the past. 

However, 

this pandemic, 

combined with both my parents deceased, 

magnified the symbolism of Lent for me,

brought all those childhood memories back.

When my own (progressive Christian) church offered these familiar symbols - the ashes, the palms - in our church portico, I felt called to go by and get some. 

This year, this year, this year. 

I decided to just surrender to whatever grief-fueled, 'flashback,' confusing emotion I am feeling, dare to participate in Lent as much as I felt inclined to do, and see where it might lead. I decided to go on my own personal, inward journey, not one tied to any particular creed. Surprisingly - actually, as I write, I am realizing that this isn't really surprising at all - I have found so much strength and solace in nature. Take for example this extraordinary tree I discovered:

You might be thinking - wait, that is no tree. You are right, it's just the remains. It's the hollow remains of a tree's trunk. Arborists have been identifying diseased trees in our local park, and this big, old tree was cut down, leaving only a 4 foot section of its stump (to be removed later, I'm sure). I couldn't believe the sight when I peered into the trunk - decay, rot, worn, uneven irregular edges, strange fungus and molds growing within, and totally hollowed out at its core. There are so many different colors and textures to death. Just one week ago, this tree was tall, thick, and strong-looking (to my non-arborist eye), growing on the bank of the creek, and now it is gone - and, from this look inside its trunk, I see that it was already long "going." This rot did not happen overnight, it was deep within. How long did it take to become so diseased? How early in the tree's life did the decay begin? What went wrong that it grew this way? 

I looked again into this hollowed trunk, and do you know what I saw? Through the hollow of the tree, I could see the water in the creek. Yes - water, flowing. It was amazing to be able to see all the way through the tree into the creek itself. I was filled with this sense of awe - oh my, this is ashes to ashes. Cycles, continuous cycles of life, life going on.

This Lent, I feel the passage of time, 

this keen sense 

of past, 

of gone, 

of forever. 

Yes, there is so much that is broken.

Yet, there is so much that turns me toward hope.

I continue "to rejoice in the precious now" (my minister's words on Ash Wednesday). 

"There is always something left to love.

And if you ain't learned that, 

you ain't learned nothing."

- Lorraine Hansberry

Apr23Poetry: The Tree

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's poetry challenge is to write about the cycle of time, and to be inspired by the changes that are occurring in the natural world. I'm not quite sure what happened here, but I went dark....

The Tree

The gardener lingers at the tree,

Surprised by the scene

Bereft of blossoms, branches bare,

Hardly any leaves.

What is this gray green fungus eyed,

Growing up the side?

Every other spring, majestic blooms,

Now, will it survive?

Grief is like this, when it comes about,

Whether whisper or shout,

Approaching loss always hurts

Seeing life worn out.