The Christmas Tree about Life
Blog 45
Written for January 1 in my book Theatre Is My Life! Thoughts on Play Quotes:
A book of meditations for each day of the year
“Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly.”
Adam from William Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act II, Scene 3
It is the end of another “frosty, but kindly” old year. Early January is beginning with promise and hope, resolutions I long to keep — and wonder about the new day, new week, new month, new year. In this part of the world — yes, even in Alabama — “lusty winter” is in full force: it is cold. Even though the days are getting longer, afternoons are still brief and light is short. Holiday decorations are being laid to rest until next November. This time is ripe for contemplating beginnings and endings.
In 2008, my Christmas tree was huge — eleven feet tall and totally filled with light. I loved that tree — a Fraser cut fresh from Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina. I filled it with glittery medieval ornaments and twinkly lights. The reason I held such great affection for this evergreen is that on the day I was going to drag it inside all by myself, my daughter Elin called and said she would help me with the task since she was coming by to give me a new decoration for the tree. When she delivered the ornament, a silver snowflake, she had me look closely at the engraving. It was inscribed “Grand Ma-Ma.” That is how she announced (Gabriel-like) the exciting news that she and her husband, David, were having a baby — my first grandchild. So the celebration of Mary’s pregnancy, the birth of the Christ Child, and this happy announcement twined around and emanated from that brightly lighted Christmas tree during the late Advent season, through Christmas, and all the way into Epiphany.
In fact, I was loath to take the tree down and kept finding myself going to meetings, doing projects, and putting other trinkets and baubles to bed rather than un-decorating my tree.
On January 10, I attended the funeral of the father of a good friend and coworker. The day was quite foggy, and I came home on the edge of tears. I was alone, and in this mood, I somehow and suddenly found myself able to put the tree away. The evergreen that started the season with the happy news of a birth ended with the poignant remembrance of a long, fruitful, “lusty” life. First I took off all the ornaments. Then starting at the top, with the lights still lit, I removed the bright star, then the first strand of lights. The top of the tree was dark. The light outside had also faded in the early dusk of a January evening. The next strand came down, then the next, and the next. Soon the whole tree was dim. The observation of the gradual extinguishing was startling as I contemplated how the finish of something so lusty and vibrant as this tree could still somehow warm my heart as it departed. The curtain was pulled, the decorations were down, and the climax of the holidays had transpired. And yet, that tree contained, even as it left the house, the mysterious fullness of new life and eloquent death.