Ode to the Tree: We are the Lights on the Tree of Life by Teresa Cobleigh
Just weeks ago, I planted two baby pine trees and spread both of my sons’ ashes into the earth beneath them. It was a small way to honor the sons I have lost to the addiction crisis.
The trees are evergreen and grace an entryway to a sanctuary with a labyrinth for meditation, a place where Spencer and I shared moments remembering and feeling connected to his brother Graham.
After weeks of visitations, memorials, and grief, I felt I had been called here again to visit the little trees. I heard two little boys in my neighborhood practice their whistling. I whistled back. They reminded me of Graham, a whistler, of little boys in their innocence, joy, and happy times. A dear friend rang me that morning, and her sweet, familiar voice brought my childhood nickname: Tree! Between the whistles and the name, I felt I was called, and I knew it was time to pay a visit to the little trees to honor my family.
Holidays were approaching. It would be the first season without Spencer by my side. We had been through so much together over the years. Sometimes, when we found ourselves in faraway places across the country, it felt like we were all each other had.
So, off I went to visit my little trees.
Any passerby would think it strange to see a person talking to a tree, but after spreading rose petals and feeding it water, it felt right. Surrounding me was a stillness, and I sensed a breeze and the warmth of the sun on my face. I sat for a while to consider the essence of a tree, its symbolism, and why I am called Tree.
As Juliet said to Romeo, what’s in a name? A tree by any other religion would be so sacred. So, this Tree would. If Tree, she was not called. Am I to praise the skies like a tall pine spreading its boughs to the heavens? Shall I grace humanity with my nuts? What keeps me rooted to this earth? Even the great Siddharth Gautama, aka Buddha, sat under the Bodhi Tree. So, I, too, shall sit to contemplate the great mysteries. Little tree, little tree, will you grant me an epiphany?
I can’t help but feel the sacredness in my surroundings as I notice the patches of grass and plantings in the garden behind the church, where I have come to know a closer connection to God, and it has gotten me through some of life’s greatest tribulations. Trees are sacred in so many religions. In Kabbalah, we have the Tree of Life with its magical formula for the flow of creation. In the Nordic cultures, we have the Yggdrasil tree, the font of knowledge, with Thoth standing atop depicted as a great eagle, a serpent coiled at the root, two forces at odds with each other, compelling growth. Native Americans worship the great cedar tree as a connection to their ancestors. The Biblical tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden is said to impart the wisdom of how life manifests itself and the key to eternal life.
As I take a seat on a nearby bench, a squirrel perches upon a branch above me and peers down, locking eyes with me as if waiting to hear me sing the sweet carols and lullabies, the holy night, and round yon virgins, mother and child. And now, any passerby on the public trail might truly find it odd to see a woman on a bench singing to a squirrel. Every lullaby and every sweet carol that I could remember. I would not have grandchildren, but I would have this magical moment with a squirrel.
Among the patches of grass and fallen leaves, I am reminded of timelessness and transcendence, of great minds and echoed voices and words that touch the heart. And Walt Whitman speaks of a child in his Leaves of Grass:
“A child said, ‘What is the grass? …’
It seems to me to be the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use your curling grass,
It may be that you transpire from the breasts of young men.
It may be if I had known them, I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old peoples,
or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are…
the mothers’ laps….
What do you think has become of the young and the old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?…
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was, it led forward life……
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses.
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier….
Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I pass death…
I am not contained between my hat and boots.”
And Walt Whitman sings to my soul,
that which cannot be contained
because it connects to all
through time
and speaks, ’I AM EVERYWHERE!’
I consider the tradition of Christmas trees and the essence of a tree,
and how Spencer, as a child, marveled at its beauty
The sparkling lights,
like stars flickering through the darkest of winter nights.
And a child may ask, ‘what is a tree?’
What would our answer be?
Would it be that a tree is the gift of creation, the giving of life?
From seed to trunk to pine to cone to seed again
An ongoing cycle of rebirth and resurrection?
I think of the possibility of a soul’s migration
from this life to the next
born unto something new
as energy transforms and does not die
The essence of a tree:
a child’s wonder,
a nest for songbirds,
food for squirrels,
an understory for the manger,
and the little tokens of love we pass from hand to hand.
Place your gifts beneath its boughs —
What do you think about this gesture?
The symbolic act of caring, giving, sharing:
We are the gifts we give to one another!
I will adorn you, my little trees,
And I will remember how we walked life together,
that it was such a gift!
And oh, sweet memories of babes and love and joy!
As I stay rooted in this earthly life,
I will remember the trees that stood with me
as centers for our gatherings
hosting our shared journeys,
how they reach up to the heavenly skies!
So sing with me of grass and trees,
mountaintops and melodies
Like inspired minds who came before
radiate timeless beauty
echoing voices through time
folding into the setting sun
to remind us that we are one
and eternal.
As spirits linger,
to the drumbeat heartbeat of my fingers
And sweetness pours from lips of singers
Live on dear ones!
Lift us with great inspiration!
Lead us into expansive ways
of thinking, feeling, believing
of being part of everything
Connected and one.
I am honored to be called ‘Tree,’
to have been the reflection in my sons’ aviator shades
And the support for their backs.
I draw meaning from the essence of a tree
as a symbol of our unity
with the divine and with each other,
with all that is
and ever was
and still can be
and the foundation for a sanctified life
Let us commune with the essence of a tree
And think of the gifts we are to each other
Wait for the epiphany:
We are the lights on the tree of life
We bring the fruit of the spirit.
Ode to the tree.
Teresa Cobleigh is honoring her sons’ memories by designating a recovery scholarship in their names. If you would like to support her efforts, you may donate to the Graham & Spencer Memorial Scholarship at Herren Project or follow her lead and donate in the name of someone you love. Together, we are the lights on this tree of life that keeps giving.
