On Saturday, I had three stories swirling around my head as I contemplated this year’s Christmas tree:
The first came from the night prior. When I hung out with my artist/dreamer/teacher friend. Earlier in the day she’d taught her second graders how to make envelopes from ordinary sheets of paper.
The second came from last year. When another artist/dreamer/teacher friend of mine posted on Facebook about how she came to believe that trees belonged in the forest.
And the third came from many, many more years ago. When yet another artist/dreamer/teacher friend of mine told me about his love of English Muffins. How he’d always eaten them. Ordered them. But never once attempted to make them. So, one Sunday he remedied that.
Sometimes, I forget that I (you, we) can make things. That we’ve made all the things. All the envelopes. And beliefs. And English Muffins. And traditions. And nonsense.
Sometimes, I forget that we can make more. And anew.
Then, I couldn’t stop thinking about the +250 year old red oak that recently crashed in our back woods and the other mostly dead, centuries old pine that’s let got of all of its needles and a quarter of its trunk.
“I think this year, we should make our Christmas tree,” I announced on the trip home from the grocery store.
My son and husband were mostly on board.
After putting all the perishables in their respective places we ventured out in our boots. I dragged out an eight foot piece of trunk and Ken used a hatchet to get it down to size.
There were a few iterations but three hours later the lights and garland and ornaments all came into place and our tree was fully and completely, homemade.