The Perfect Tree

The Perfect Tree

In our family, for over thirty years, we have upheld a proud tradition of heading out into the national forest to cut our own Christmas tree. I was always the fussy one. No, this one isn’t full enough; this one isn’t symmetrical. The family learned over the years to be patient. After about half an hour of trudging through the snow, rejecting this one and that one, I would finally say, “This is it. What do you think?” The others would gather around and we’d talk about it. If everyone agreed this was the perfect tree, I’d ask the tree’s permission to take it. (They never said, “No! Go away, you savage.”) We’d lay a blessing on it, the men would cut it and we’d drag our prize back to the car. At home it would fill the corner of the living room with its dark pine fragrance. I decorated it with the same kind of lights and ornaments my parents had used and did my best to recreate some of the wonder and excitement I had felt when I was a child in Canada.

But this year, as Christmas came barreling down the road, the lyrics of an old Joni Mitchell song haunted me: “It’s coming on Christmas/they’re cutting down the trees . . . I wish I had a river/I could skate away on . . .” I thought about global warming and wondered how many trees were being chopped down all over the world. (I didn’t feel the same about turkeys—I’m not sure why.) I discovered that I wasn’t the only member of the family who was beginning to feel squeamish about cutting down a live tree. On one of our many dog walks in the forest we had talked about buying a potted tree. But it would probably be too expensive. How about digging up one and potting it? But by December the ground would be frozen. What about cutting a sage bush? Plenty of them around.

On the way back to the car we came across a piñon that had been run over by a truck. It was smashed into the ground, the bark scraped off the trunk, the bottom branches dead. “Let’s take this one—it’s going to die anyway.” “What? Are you crazy?” “It’s about the right height. I wouldn’t feel so bad about cutting this one.”
Three days before Christmas, we were out there with the saw and there was that tree that had been run over by a truck, still dying a slow, painful death. “Shall we take it?” One of us thought this was a joke and was taken aback when the other two marched right up to it and began sawing. To my surprise, when we stood the tree up, it was actually a good height and fullness. But it looked muddy, droopy and abused. And the branches were not symmetrical. I would never have chosen it last year when I was looking for the perfect tree.

We cut some extra branches, tied the tree on top of the car and took it home. We stood it up outside in the stand, gave it a cold drink of water, sprayed the branches and lopped off all the dead ones. Then we weighted down the ones that had been on the bottom so they would gently open again. It took a couple of days, a song and blessing, but as soon as we brought the tree in the house, it began to perk up. By the time we had tied the extra branches on it, twirled the lights around it and hung the ornaments, it looked just as beautiful as any Christmas tree we had ever had. A much better fate for the poor tree than dying smashed into the ground on the side of a muddy road.

Looking at the tree, I thought, I’m not normally a fussy person. What has driven me all these years to insist that the tree and the Christmas meal must be perfect? Like the bride who insists that every detail of her wedding is perfect. As if a perfect wedding would guarantee a happy ending. I know it’s not just me—I know that all over the world striving humans are frozen on the staircase in a struggle for perfection that can only be achieved by grace.
Though we had to chop it down to do it, we brought this “rescue tree” back to life. We honored it and gave it back its dignity. Which made us feel good. So for us, this is the perfect tree.

When I told my sister this story, she told me one. She lives in California and misses the snow but not the cold. She said it rained and rained there and she and her husband were both sick with the flu and got behind on their Christmas doings. The day before Christmas, they went to the hardware store to buy a tree, but found only one left. It was a big tree in a pot and the price tag was $124. My brother-in-law said they couldn’t afford it, but my sister said to the clerk, “How about letting us have it for half price because it’s the day before Christmas?” The clerk called her boss and he said okay, so they bought the tree for $60. It was so big it took three people to maneuver it into the car, and when they got home, she and her husband could hardly get it out.
Turns out it is a redwood tree. Their back yard is small and they’re not sure where to plant it after Christmas. My sister said, “We have to be careful. They grow really big.”
I laughed, but envied her the privilege of planting a redwood tree in her back yard. “It’s probably not going to grow that much in your lifetime.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The next door neighbor planted one five years ago and now it’s higher than his house!”

So here’s to the millions of trees that are being cut down all over the planet, not only at Christmas, but all year round. The green forests that absorb carbon dioxide and give off the oxygen that we breathe. Thanks for the apple wood of my old dresser; the pine planks of the walls and ceiling; for the sturdy oak of my desk and the kitchen floor; for the cottonwood and piñon I burn in my woodstove every night. Gratitude and love to the mighty cottonwoods that shaded the parking lot behind the courthouse in Taos for over fifty years. A shower of blessings on the old growth forests everywhere and the community of plants and animals and insects and crawly things that make their homes in and around them. An OM for every sacred redwood and sequoia in California, and hosannas for the red maples of the north country with their spiky leaves, and the quaking aspens of the high country, and the live oaks of the South. For the spreading chestnut trees that are all gone forever, and the graceful, arching elms that survived Dutch elm disease. In Elmhurst, where I was born, the muscular branches of the elms above my mother’s curly head are my first memories.

No matter what shape or size or species, I know every tree is perfect beyond anything I can measure. In the web of life, they all have a purpose, though it's not always obvious to me. I may try to describe and pay tribute to them, but as Joyce Kilmer said, “Only God can make a tree.”

Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo

Christmas Eve at Taos Pueblo has been part of our family tradition for many years. This ancient drama of fire and ice, the procession of the Madonna, is a heady combination of Hispanic Catholic and pagan ritual. It might be the only place you’ll ever see a rifle in church. I’ve heard that the presence of four riflemen at the head of the procession symbolizes how the Conquistadors forced the Indians to build a church and attend services at the point of a rifle. But gradually, the Indians incorporated the strange new religion into their own world. They are true to their original beliefs that revolve around secret teachings in the underground kivas, but many of them are also Catholic.
We follow a winding back road into the Pueblo and park in a snowy field beside dozens of other cars, hoping we’ll be able to get out again. This year the roads to the Pueblo are clear, but last year, stepping out of the car, we were up to our calves in snow. The sun drops out of sight as we head for the Pueblo. Above the trees we see a plume of dark smoke and then the dancing tips of orange flames. One of the bonfires is already burning. Ahead of us strides a man in a black top hat and black frock coat. I’m wearing my L.L. Bean blanket coat with the silver buttons and bear motif, my neck warmed by a lavender scarf. We cross the Rio Pueblo, which is almost frozen over, and emerge from the trees into a wide dirt plaza already crowded with people. Here we greet old friends with hugs and grins and, “How are the children?” They are also dressed in various costumes, some in fur hats and Pendleton coats, others in plaid capes or more practical down jackets. Beside the bonfire, a man in a black cowboy hat with a dark poncho tossed across his shoulder strikes a pose.
The tallest bonfire is about twenty-five feet. One of the Indians has climbed to the top to light it. The bonfires are made of split piñon wood stacked like Lincoln logs. We stroll to the end of the plaza and look back at the scene, the ground streaked with snow, three bonfires in orange bloom, curling with beige plumes smoke that unfurl all over the Pueblo. At the west end is the white, adobe church, Saint Jerome chapel with stepped walls and three crosses. The steps are illuminated by farolitos—candles set in sand inside paper bags. The north side of the Pueblo on our right rises five stories high, framed by massive Pueblo Peak. On the flat rooftops or leaning against wooden ladders, the Indians are watching the proceedings.
Two young men appear in regular dress bearing fiery torches over eight feet long, strips of piñon lashed together. The four riflemen assemble. The one with the white blanket draped around his shoulders is grinning at the others. The Pueblo police wave us back. A rifle goes off with a sharp report. We startle, clutch each other and laugh low in our throats. It begins.
The church bells Clang! Clang! The big drum goes Boom-Boom Boom-Boom, Boom-boom Boom-boom! Our feet can’t resist the rhythm. Behind the riflemen come the elders in striped blankets, chanting in deep voices, then the young women and little girls who trot back and forth in a line and hurry to keep up. And here’s the Madonna or Corn Mother under her billowing canopy, dressed in her gleaming winter whites. Behind the Madonna come the Priest and the congregation singing a Christian hymn. Then all the members of St. Jerome’s parade past, their heads high. Many visitors join in at the end of the procession. Rifles pop in the distance. A plane winks overhead. Across the frozen river, fireworks flare. I wonder what this looks like to foreign visitors who have never seen it before?
We are all engulfed by smoke that carries the smart scent of pine pitch. I cough and cover my face with my fuzzy scarf, which fogs up my glasses. But in the center of the left lens is a single, round hole the size of my eye. Through it I watch the black silhouettes of visitors gathered around a distant bonfire. They are circled by a rainbow of light, the rest of the setting obscured by smoke. I’m enjoying the novelty of this when the procession returns on a loop back to the church. We join in and follow. Too soon the ceremony is over. People gather around the bonfires, grinning like children, eyes bright with pleasure, mouths open, whooping and shouting when the tower of wood collapses in a shower of sparks. They duck, but no one moves back.
We thread our way down a narrow alley between the dark adobe walls of the Pueblo to visit friends. We step into a small, spare room lit only by lanterns and candles on the mantle. The walls are whitewashed and luminous. It’s like being inside an egg. We are welcomed with hugs and invitations to join them for chilie. Are we coming to the Deer Dance tomorrow?
We sink into an old leather couch in front of the tall, narrow fireplace. The opening is shaped like the door of a church. Three logs are stacked on end. My Indian friend points to an oak log that has been burning for hours. “I used to think, Wood is wood, just burn it! But it all burns differently,” she says. “We used to call oak ‘honeymoon wood’ because it burns all night and leaves hot coals in the morning. Some people started to notice that everything on earth is alive. Maybe the earth itself. We said, ‘Of course the earth is alive. That’s why we dance to it, sing to it.’”
Inside these strong, thick walls that have protected the people for a thousand years, as I sit and watch the oak burn a deep stillness rises from below, up through me. In spite of all the turmoil in the world, I feel safe here, one with the Earth and stars, with fire and ice. Part of something mysterious, ever changing, and always the same.
Blessings on you native people in your struggle to preserve your truth, your way of life. Gratitude and love. And a prosperous New Year.

SOLSTICE

SOLSTICE

NOW WE PLUNGE DOWN INTO DARKNESS
TO KISS THE HEM OF LIGHT
DOWN INTO HOLY STILLNESS
THIS BLUE WINTER NIGHT

TO TOUCH THE FLAME THAT SOARS AND SINGS
TO SOUND THE CHORD THAT SILENCE RINGS
BLESSED BY THE BREATH OF ANGEL WINGS
IN SWIFT, ECSTATIC FLIGHT.

A JOYOUS RETURN TO THE LIGHT!

Solstice

NOW WE PLUNGE DOWN INTO DARKNESS
TO KISS THE HEM OF LIGHT
DOWN INTO HOLY STILLNESS
THIS BLUE WINTER NIGHT

TO TOUCH THE FLAME THAT SOARS AND SINGS
TO SOUND THE CHORD THAT SILENCE RINGS
BLESSED BY THE BREATH OF ANGEL WINGS
IN SWIFT, ECSTATIC FLIGHT.

A JOYOUS RETURN TO THE LIGHT!

Dear President Obama

Dear President Obama,


Tonight you are in Copenhagen where over 100 national leaders and influential members of 193 countries have come together to forge an agreement on what has to be done about accelerating global warming. And what’s fair to whom. I know you didn’t want to go, but there you are, as you were meant to be, in this historic moment in time. And I’m so glad. No matter what happens on Friday, you showed up, and that’s important to the whole world. Not just six billion people, but all the creatures of the ocean, and those that live in the wetlands, the rivers and streams. And all the creatures on land, not just the polar bears. What’s at stake here? Absolutely everything. Our children and grandchildren, their future. The holy aspen trees. The ancient redwoods. The right whale. The wild salmon. The coral reefs. The wolves. The lions and tigers. The panda. The great ape. The food we eat, the air we breathe. Because, as you know, every living form on planet Earth depends on water. And everything is intricately bonded to everything else. Forever.

What’s decided tomorrow, or not decided, which document is signed or not signed does not matter as much as the gathering itself of so many nations, such an outpouring of public concern, so much awareness of a global problem and a hunger to do something about it. As soon as possible! The intentions, the goodwill, even the marches and riots in the streets, the willingness to go to jail or just sit down and talk, to air gripes, to freely differ is what democracy is all about.

My dear President, I know you are tired and there’s so much to be done. But I believe you are up to the task. That’s why I voted for you. I believe in your strength and in the deep wisdom of your heart. Please follow your intuitive wisdom and nothing can lead you astray.

Whatever the outcome, my blessings on your efforts. You give me hope that we can turn this around, that by working together we can change our hearts and minds and honor our connection to all other living things.

Yes we can!

Phaedra in New Mexico