Little Tree

The Season of Stillness and Light

Night falls upon us early now, after the dimming of afternoon angles of light. A misty paleness surrounds my bare persimmon tree, its branches exposed, now a perch for the birds. My new ginkgo tree that I planted in the spring for my son turned pale, then golden, then one by one, leaves fluttered to the ground. One morning I stood in the silence of my backyard, aware of tiny crisp sounds. A leaf fell on my head from the birch tree whose branches are rich in green life in the spring and summer. Now its leaves release, as that is its nature this season. More crisp sounds surrounded me from other trees as I gazed at the amber leaves on the ground, and I see that I must allow this letting go of the growing season. The year of mourning is nearly over, but it did bring gifts of its own.

As the year anniversary of my son’s death approaches, I also mark a year of my other companion—the back injury that filled the months with another kind of pain. I’m more healed now, though I can still be felled by pain if I move too much. Pain was indeed a strong companion to deal with. It brought me to quiet and stillness many times, as did grieving as I lay out breathing slowly to absorb everything one moment at a time. Both experiences are part of me now, but I expected that the autumn season would send me back into moody darkness again. Instead, I see beauty and light.

My delicious and life affirming trip to Spain gave me many gifts—new landscapes and friends, and reminded me that I am still here. I am still me, and that I/me/we are still full of the joy of travel, and I’m deep diving into writing a new book about writing and healing. The times in isolation and quiet were a contrast to the vibrancy on my trip to Madrid and Barcelona, which stays with me to savor these weeks after my return.

So as the crisp leaves—chink, rustle—drop around me, and the darkness of this season surrounds me, I find myself, instead of further grieving, celebrating light as the Solstice comes near.

For the first time in years, I brought home a small Christmas tree, a real one, for my table. Located the box of ornaments that was tucked away for years. I opened it to find silver and red shining little balls, and our angel with her white sparkly dress, red jeweled heart, gold scarf and wings that crowned our family tree since the children were little. I remember how they marveled at her as we placed her at the top of the tree, how we laughed as we threw those silver icicles everywhere. The cats jumped up for the ornaments and chased each other, and it was entirely joyful chaos.

It is quiet as I decorate my tree, remembering. I feel very tender toward her, that she offered her life so we can celebrate Christmas. I’m doing it for Theron and myself, and because this year, I need a sweet little tree. As I place the few ornaments, I think of him, his laughter, his joy of the season, always ready to celebrate and shop and play Christmas music and George Winston when he wasn’t playing the Beatles or Led Zeppelin. I speak to him and these three kitties listen, Harvey, Charlie, and Minou, and respectfully leave the ornaments alone.

This year, I revel in the beauty and pine aroma the tree offers me. It’s sporting a white light garland around its branches, its light filling my little house and my heart. In the stillness, I breathe all this in, remembering my son, past Christmases, the noise and bustle. It’s all part of our story, and now the quiet and the remembering is too.

I have always loved the e. e. cummings’ poem “Little Tree” and read it aloud to the children for 40 years, but Theron probably appreciated it the most, always attuned to beauty and magic. The contemplation of this Christmas reminded me to find it and share it. Enjoy!

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
that sleep all the year in a dark box
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”

This poem first appeared in The Dial, Vol. LXVIII, No. 1 (Jan. 1920).
It is now in the public domain. From Daily Poem.