Ashes, Ashes

"New seed is faithful.  It roots deepest
in the places that are most empty."  C. P. Estes

We all fall down.  The ashes were spread in the garden with care.  They are the remaining essence of our Christmas Tree.


A week or so ago on Christmas Day our family visited around the fireplace with a bright and cozy fire. The blaze was fed by the trunk of our tree from one year ago.






In its vibrant, green state it was magnificent, tall and stately.  After the holiday season, it provided shelter and perching for birds as it snuggled into the arms of the bare persimmon tree that lives just off the dining room window. By April the regal life had drained away, and it was time for its next incarnation: limbs to protect the creek bank and the trunk cut to dry for firewood for next Christmas Day.


Sweet memories drifted up with the smoke of the family fire, and there was space to honor the source and fuel for the heat--a sacred life completed.  Things I get to do today will embrace the full circle as I spread the ashes to mix with soil and become new life, new beginnings rooted deeply in this emptiness.

Christmas and Spring

In the arms of love

We had a magnificent Christmas tree this last winter.  When the official season was over, the tree was definitely not dead or ready to be disposed of--see: "In the Arms of Love" (1-3-12).  Subsequent holidays came and went, Valentine's, Presidents', St. Patrick's, and Easter.  I had thought if the tree can make it until Easter, oh my!

Still quite green for a May Christmas Tree

May 1, well past Easter, a terrific wind came through.  The Christmas tree leaned out from its arms of security and toppled to its side on the ground.  It was time.  Along with its departure came the awareness of its future use.

Steep bank and erosion

Bank secured with Christmas branches

The limbs were cut from the trunk and used to stabilize the steep bank of the ditch/creek next to our property where Dame Apple lives.  These branches will help hold the soil through the rains that we are sure to have.









And the trunk?  It will season over the summer.  Next Christmas we will burn those logs for our family gathering. When the house is again quiet, the ashes will be scooped and sprinkled into the garden where they will become part of new life.  Full cycle.  Sweet tradition.

In the Arms of Love

Trees die a slow death.  It's not really different for a Christmas tree unless it's blessed to still have its roots in a pot.  For the others, after the pain of the ax or saw, they hold on bravely as long as they can.

Hugged by the persimmon, a new friend

We bought a tree from a local lot this year.  It was the first time in several years that we were at home during the holidays.  Getting a tree when we're off visiting family in another part of the country seemed ridiculous.  But this year, our lovies came to stay for Christmas at our house. We wanted the trimmings, the smell, the brilliance of a great, green, majestic tree.  That's what we bought--12 feet tall--a tree that would touch the highest part of our ceiling before it was coronated with its gold star.

So when Christmas was over, New Year's Day passed and the needles started to drop heavily, we knew it was time to lay it to rest.  We have several signs in our neighborhood telling of drop-off-for-a-few-dollars-for-charity services for Christmas trees.  But sending this gentle giant through a shredder wasn't how I wanted its life to end.

A strong, loving, supporting arm

We hauled it out of the house and thrust it into the embrace of our now-bare-since-the-leaves-and-fruit-are-gone persimmon tree.  It will stand (with some assistance--Things I get to do today) close to its supporting friend.  Birds will land on its branches.  The rain with bathe it.  The frost and snow will chill it.  And for a time it can pretend it is still growing in the forest.  As the life leaks out of its trunk, the needles will fall, and branches will turn brittle.  At some point, we'll allow it to shine brilliantly again--in our fire place--probably next Christmas.  And the ashes can go back into the soil, the soul of the tree now nourishing new seeds in its arms of love.