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.”