When I was a little boy, one of my favorite things to do in the days leading up to Christmas was to crawl beneath the Christmas tree when it was lit at night and look up into the branches. From this interior vantage point, I was both secretly concealed (I always liked to be hidden) and afforded views no one else had. I was within looking out, and that’s one of the best views to have.
Behind the thick exterior of pine needles, the inside area opened up. Where less light reached, a thinning of branches occurred. Foliage wise, the interior of a Christmas tree can be hollow. One could see clearly the beauty of the trunk, the architecture of the branches and the congealed rivulets of sap. One could follow in the footsteps of chipmunks and squirrels, tracing how they might climb and disperse to evade predators, or where they might hide their plunder. Illuminated by Christmas lights, the natural beauty of the tree found particular splendor. I stayed there, pondering the prettiness of the season, holding onto my childhood because I already knew that life would only get more difficult.
The heart of a tree is a private place, and only in such secrecy could I be comfortable enough to show my pain.
This year I remembered the balm of being in the midst of such beauty. On a night otherwise filled with sadness, I pulled a pillow from the couch and worked my way under the lower limbs of the tree. I looked up and into the branches closest to the trunk. This tree that I’d grown for fourteen years, this perfectly-imperfect piece of nature and wonder – it held its sharp needles tightly to itself, as dearly as I held onto childhood memories.
No matter how old I get, there is still wonder and pain there. Here.
Beneath the prickly boughs, salty gratitude and anger like the sea rolled over my face.
