A few days ago, my family and I obtained our yearly Christmas tree, precut, as per tradition. This tree was without a doubt, one of the most beautiful, vibrant trees we had ever cared for. Yet it took mere days for it to stop taking in water. Within two weeks of its adoption, almost all its needles had fallen and the tree was stained brown in its passing.

Immediately I sought a second tree to replace it. With even more diligence and care, I asked permissions of each tree standing tall in the local charity lot, eventually choosing another that said it welcomed the experience of coming into our home. It, too, didn’t survive more than a week.

Having a deep inner-child connection to the magic at Christmas, this was a heartbreaking experience for me. Every year, our Christmas season would begin with my parents dutifully loading my siblings and I into the back of their seatless, black Chevy van for a day’s drive into the Rocky Mountains. I was the youngest of six (therefore the smallest) and would have to act as the wall to their many flats of unopened beer stacked in the back. My nose would be pink and running and ass frozen from the 72 cans of cold Kokanee I sat upon. I didn’t care. We’d spend the day in the forest picnicking in the snow until we found the perfect tree. I would expend as much energy as I could so I could sleep during the inebriated swerve through an icy mountain passes on the way home. But Christmas always lent its magic to our safety. It was the only time the violence ceased both inside and outside our home.

Now, with two trees dead and still fighting for the celebration, I purchased a potted Norfolk pine. It was tall enough that we were able to string a simple copper strand of lights around it and tie a list of gratitudes from ribbons to its branches. The potted Norfolk sat in the corner of our apartment where it’s two mighty brothers once stood. We loved that little pine. It too passed before summer began.

I do not believe the death of these trees is an indicator that I’m a terrible caretaker— I loved them deeply, and care for a veritable garden regularly. I don’t believe this is a matter of purchasing a real tree vs. a fake one vs. none at all for Christmas and is most definitely not a debate I intend to incite right now; we’re at where we’re at.

In this moment, I believe the teaching of the Pines asks me to consider how I protect what I believe to be sacred and to reevaluate what I consider sacred to mean. Is it the tree's right to life, or is it protecting the vision of my childhood tradition?

I believe the Pines are showing me about where I still place security in possessions. And I think it’s teaching me about sharing. And I can see how that one teaching alone ripples out into my entire life right now.

• What is a sacred tool?

• How do I use it? Misuse it? Protect it?

• Where do I place too much value in “it”? Where do I not put enough?

• How many lives would the tree serve if its roots were left to connect in the earth vs. potted in my home?

• What traditions would be best honored in the past?

• Where do my celebrations need elevating?

• And, how can I celebrate the season without making my pain watch from the chair in the corner? 

Be well.

Jamie