At this time of year there is a tree in my house, just as
there is likely a tree in yours. Even if you are not Christian (and perhaps especially if you are pagan), you may
have a a special tree residing indoors right now: cut or living, evergreen or white PVC,
electrified or candlefied--and is a menorah is a tree of sorts as well? It's my favorite thing at this time of year to come down
early, switch on the lights, and come to in the glow of our indoor tree, which gives its life for our celebration of the rebirth of the sun and the
hope of spring--noel noel. I'm never tired of this poem.
little
tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i
will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only
don't be afraid
look
the spangles
 |
| our little tree |
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel
Noel"
**********************
I have always been a
tree-hugger. This poem is from Squeeze and can be dated to
approximately 1972; below is my daughter visiting the very cedar mentioned in
the poem in 2006 (click here to see it on a
map).
How to Run Away
| Heidi Mordhorst
Take
money. Pack light. Coast your bike
down the
fastest hill in the neighborhood.
The one by the
Baptist church is good.
Claim a weeping
willow: plunge through
hanging curtains
to find a private room.
The swish of
long leaves keeps you company.
Or lie under a
cedar with triple trunks
capturing air
and space above you.
Its needles
make a pungent carpet.
Or climb a
dense magnolia. There are
leathery leaves
to hide you from enemies,
fuzzy grenades
to lob through the branches.
Then go
shopping. You don’t need much:
saltines,
peanut butter, a carton of milk.
Your finger
makes a perfect knife.
Now move in and
build your nest.
Hang your bag
on a twiggy hook.
Stay. Eat.
Read your book.
Stay until you know
they’re worried.
Stay until you
miss your brother.
Stay until the shadows cool your
mood.
Then pump your
book, your bag, your bike
back up that
hardest hill
toward home.
*******************************************
I'm always watching the trees in my
yard, those close by in my neighborhood, the ones across the field from my
2nd-floor classroom. Joyce Sidman
captures their essential wisdom in this poem from Winter Bees (2014) which we can't get enough of.
What Do the Trees Know? | Joyce Sidman
 |
| Illustration by Rick Allen |
What do the trees know?
To bend when all the wild winds blow.
Roots are deep and time is slow.
All we grasp we must let go.
What do the trees know?
Buds can weather ice and snow.
Dark gives way to sunlight’s glow.
Strength and stillness help us grow.
********************************************
So as always I was communing
pretty closely with the trees when my spouse surprised me the other morning
with a report on the 80-foot tulip poplar we share with a neighbor. "It's confirmed unhealthy and
we need to take it down before it falls on our roof," she said, and there I was crying into my son's lunchbox.
Dec.
27
one
of our trio of tulip trees, 18??-2018
"All we grasp we must let go All
we grasp we must let go All we grasp we must let go." I repeat
and repeat what the trees know, but
this tall tulip that hugs our patio, shades our outdoor table,
drops honey-bearing nectar on us all
May, that stood here long before the patio, long before
the house indeed (coincidentally born
the same year as I), that stood in a wood I can
barely imagine, unmapped, unloved, not a
feature but a creature of an unpeopled
landscape—this tall
tulip with its straight
trunk unlimbed
to
30 feet, is precious
to me. I should speak
for this tree, save it
from our ill human
meddling, but good
sense, this tree's own
deep-rooted wisdom
counsels me: stillness.
Bend, give way; strength
and
stillness, stillness helps us grow.
draft (c) HM 2017
draft (c) HM 2017
********************************
May it be so with the eternal internal conflict: when to stand strong in resistance, when to bend, when to let go? The rooted stillness itself becomes the greatest challenge.
But, once let go, there may be another kind of rebirth: to wit, craft worked upon the fallen tree. My brother lost an American black walnut tree some years ago and finally reclaimed the wood in the form of several gorgeous pieces given as gifts this Christmas. The wheel of the tree at the turning of the year.
But, once let go, there may be another kind of rebirth: to wit, craft worked upon the fallen tree. My brother lost an American black walnut tree some years ago and finally reclaimed the wood in the form of several gorgeous pieces given as gifts this Christmas. The wheel of the tree at the turning of the year.
Looking forward to seeing what portents you all have for the New Year! Leave your link below, and as the French say, neatly avoiding any religious sentiment at all,
meilleurs voeux a tous pour la nouvelle année!!
