
I moved around quite a bit when I was a kid, and as an adult I've continued that gypsy existence. Over the 42 years of my life I've averaged a move every 3.8 years. There is certainly sadness that comes with moving away from a familiar home and with saying goodbye to friends, but with each move I've adapted fairly quickly, settling my stuff into unfamiliar rooms to make a new home and being open to making new friends.
I think the best part of each move has been the sensation of waking up, of shedding the dullness from my eyes that comes from familiarity with a certain landscape and experiencing unfamiliar surroundings with wide-open eyes. In every place I've been, I've formed a complex attachment to the particular mix of trees that surrounded me. Their height, shape, pattern of leaf and flower through the seasons, the birds they attract, the distinctive sound of the wind sighing through their leaves--all of these characteristics have helped me form a spiritual connection to each place I've lived and a sense of being at home.
The trees of Southern California especially hold a powerful association for me. They remind me of nursing my children while being lulled by the swaying fronds of the twin palms in our back yard. Of sitting under the towering eucalyptus trees in a shaded park by the ocean while my children played nearby. Of picking fistfuls of delicate loquats with my daughter and carrying them inside, our hands sticky with their juice. Of planting miniature fruit trees in our back yard and seeing them bear fruit. Of the magnolia tree in front of each house in our 50's-era neighborhood. Of the delicate red bristles of the bottle brush tree's flowers. The trees around me formed a lush, almost tropical paradise, a fitting setting for my days of young motherhood.

Since I have moved away from the irrigated faux paradise of California to the Northeast, I have an even richer connection with the trees that spring naturally from the region's well-watered soil. Each season brings an incredible change to the maple, oak, honey locust, black walnut, chestnut, and crabapple trees in our yard. During the summer, the sheer weight of the green around us almost dulls the senses. But then the fall with its brilliant colors wakes me up to the individual beauty of each tree. And now that winter is here, the skeleton of each deciduous tree raises its exposed branches in startling fragility against the gray sky.
I've started exploring the symbolism of trees in my crafting lately, especially the ideas of growth and stability that they embody. A "Tree of Life" motif was an obvious choice for a journal cover I made for my sister for Christmas. She has experienced a number of major transitions in the last two years--back surgery, a new job, selling a house, moving into a new home, becoming involved in a new church--that have challenged her to uproot herself and her family and settle in more fertile soil. She is doing great, and I wanted to celebrate her successes with a lush tree teeming with life and growth.

I used Resurrection Fern's idea of printing text on ribbon to weave a poem I wrote into the branches of the tree. Here's my wish for my sister, and for all of you in this new year:
Tree of Life
Its seeking roots
support a wide trunk.
Its trunk,
whose circles of growth ripple outward,
Makes a strong column.
This column holds up outstretched branches
That carry your yearnings skyward.
Branches that
sprout leaves with veins of sweet sap;
Shelter birds;
Bear fruit like my wishes for you.
Happy New Year!










