My Story Tree

My Story Tree

I put up a Christmas tree this week. I doubt we will plan a big celebration. Our family is scattered all over the world: Sean, our son, in Australia for a wedding. Erika just emigrated to Portugal, so she only just recently moved into a flat of her own.

I come from a large, highly dysfunctional family, most of whom have passed on. My mother and her siblings have all left this realm, and dysfunction dictates that I have no contact with any of those of my generation.

Grant and I will be alone this year, for the first time.

Despite this, I bought a Christmas tree. It has always felt like an honour to welcome a piece of the forest into my house. Essentially a woodland creature, its scent and the moisture awaken pieces of me that are ancient and too often subdued. The tree’s presence reminds me of what I am. The boughs are strong and flexible, and the sap’s scent deepens over time. The tree’s shape reminds me that building a wide base for my dreams will prepare them to manifest.

On the tree’s branches, I hang symbols that span past to present, memories that have fed the dreams rising above next year’s horizon: hand-made bubbles crafted by my children, sparkly ornaments first collected before they were born, bits and ribbons of mysterious origin, and coloured glass balls first hung on the Christmas tree that towered over the bare studio Grant and I first shared.

The Christmas tree is a story tree, and I love stories.

So despite the lack of plans, the absence of children, and the vague apprehension of facing this season alone, I put up a Christmas tree.

Especially this year, I will savour the story it tells.