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This year's poem is a musing from our tree, a giant, magical presence,
I am the tree. Standing in the midst of the grandest room I am the mist of emotions, the gist of memories, the list of things that bring you back to the child you were. Holding my arms out and up, strong and secure, I cradle small keys to what is chosen to be remembered as part of this special season for this universe. Glowing with a thousand lights, soaring up into the tall ceiling, spreading wide over the train which circles my feet, I am, for December and beyond, this childhood’s lifetime treasure. I am not different this year from next except in new things life experience has added.
White-robed Father Christmas stands on his perilous perch at the top of my world, and reigns over a kingdom of winter holiday creations, from snowchildren and dancing reindeer to the jolly old Elf Himself, from angels and angelbears, to lighthouses, ferries and skiffs. There are cats in my branches, peering out, mischievous, caught (and not yet) in their antics, All of my creatures not moving at all when you are watching, not at all.
But when you turn away from me, they resume their small intimate conversations among themselves, the gingerbread man in the teacup talking with the cat directly above him, who peers into the goldfish bowl, the elegant feathered swan who discusses philosophy with Santa in the skiff motoring by to her right, the Cape May ferry signaling to Grandfather’s violin nearby that it’s leaving port, the star embroidered “Peace” moving closer to the teddybear angel with the hope star in his hand, the Bodie Island light lending its beam to the reindeer’s path, the fleecy little lamb now thirty five or so years old moving in the direction of the Jamestowne Church, a kitten tangled with lights climbs atop a bright green ball, next to a child dressed in Victorian longcoat, JOY and PEACE nestle in among Mannheim’s steamroller, a chili pepper wreath from Albuquerque, a wooden locomotive, and a small green chest brimming with toys. A slightly timeworn sprite sits atop a branch, just above a laid-back reindeer steering a holiday sailboat, while delicate blades of the Flowerdew Hundred windmill spin quietly in the distance.
Inside my branches, close to my heart, big glittery red, gold, and silver ornaments and snowflakes catch and pitch the light, moving slowly in their orbits. Underneath, at my feet, the small train with Christmas cars chugs around, alarming neighborhood cats with its powerful mournful whistle, bemusing them with mysterious smoke wisps trailing behind.
If generations of humankind are twenty years, there are at least three of them in my branches, symbolized in these small and fragile treasures.
Not far from me, on a terraced hillside, villagers look over from their busy lives and marvel at me. They wonder if I am real. I am so far away they can only guess my size. I look at them, and know that whatever they believe is real, is. They have many discussions about me and about life in general, and about what it all means. I smile often. I know that it means what it is supposed to -- to whom it is supposed to be meaningful. They worry a lot. I know that worry is a useless thing, for sooner or later, all ends up like my treasure – if it’s important enough, it will be remembered.
If not, it won’t.
How do Christmas trees get to be this wise? Being the only one I see, I am not sure. But the wisdom is comfortable, and mine.
My wish for the villagers, all villagers everywhere, in villages big and small, (even in villages of one or two) is that you love your own village, your own universe. And when you see a star (or a tree or whatever you don’t understand fully but which adds beauty to your life), you simply enjoy it without asking why.
I will leave in January some time, or maybe not until February (my dream is always to stay until February), but I will return. When I come back, I would like to see you smiling, remembering how I looked last year and looking forward to how I will arrange my treasures for you to love in a new pattern, a new order, a new fantasy.
I will remember your smile all year, the way you looked when you laugh, and the light of your eyes at Christmas.
It is what trees do.
Christmas Poem written December 16, 2009 by Susan Godman Rager Comments
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