As Freud Would Say…

January 24, 2012


In 2005, I finally took my Christmas Tree down just before the deadline for taxes on April 15th. Yes, it had been up for four months. I think I was attempting to extend the Christmas season through February and March until Spring arrived and with it, the crocuses and daffodils – my multihued assurance of a resurrected life. For me, Spring flowers are that promise.

My mother died that year in the early morning hours of December 26th. I spent that Christmas Eve by her side, watching her chest rise and fall with diminishing breath, the morphine having done its job to eradicate her pain. I spent Christmas Day, watching the color of her skin change from pink to pallid gray as her life slowly ebbed, then ceased. It seemed as if I breathed in and when I breathed out, she was gone. Her death was like her: a gentle whisper, a hush. I could almost see her hooked arthritic finger poised in front of her lips, gently reproving my grief with a, ”Shhhhh…it’s OK.” It was 2:10 am and the vigil was over.

Death is a busy thing. There are people to call, documents to peruse, bills to pay, arrangements to be made; all of it done in a state of mind that would resemble catatonia if it weren’t for the sobbing spasms that grip your gut and pitch your body into contortions at the most inappropriate times. Her dying had been the focus of my life for close to a year. Her dying had become my life. Now that she was gone, I stood there in the empty house and didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. And so I did what anyone else would do under the circumstances: I checked the water level in the Christmas Tree stand. It was empty.

Seven feet of Scotch Pine laden with hundreds of lights and tens of ornaments, requires frequent hydration. It’s a thirsty organism and this one had been, understandably, neglected. I filled the teakettle with tap water and poured it into the base of the tree, then because I had been awake around the clock for days, tried to get some sleep. The next morning I checked the tree again and noticed it had already consumed the water from the day before. I watered it again and kept watering it until the days turned into weeks, December turned into January, January into February, February into March and March into April. For some reason, I couldn’t allow the thing to die. I needed to keep it alive.

The tree had become my mother.

I don’t know what Freud would have to say about that, but most of my friends thought it strange, as did my family, as did my co-workers and anyone else who happened into my living room where the tree stood, dwarfing my furniture. Some asked me outright, what it was still doing there. Some pretended to ignore its existence, as if to mention it would disturb my fragile relationship with reality. Others found it eccentrically interesting, like pasting shoes to one’s forehead would be interesting. Still, some found it fun.

As the first crocuses of the season that year peeked their purple and yellow flowering heads through the soil, and the April 15th tax deadline loomed, I finally took the ornaments and lights off the tree, carted it through the house, down the steps and out to my car. Then I tied it atop the roof and brought it to the landfill. By that time, the Christmas Tree section was no longer accepting trees. On the drive home, I left it in the woods.

This year I bought my first artificial tree; nothing to keep watering, nothing to keep alive. Maybe I am becoming healthier?

But…today is January 24th and my tree is still up…

Hmmm…

As Freud would say, “Ziz girl needs TREEtment.”

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We Are Our Prayers

December 24, 2011


This past year, I’ve submitted a few prayer requests to Grace Prayer Community, an online prayer line.  This prayer line is free, where some require a minimum ‘love’ gift before you are even allowed to press the submit button. I always found this practice disturbing, especially since the majority of the prayer requests are regarding finances. It’s always felt to me, like paying God to answer prayer or Divine extortion.

Once I submitted my prayer, I was given the opportunity to reciprocate praying for others by being sent the log of daily prayer requests.  There are literally thousands of them.  Thousands is good if you’re requesting prayer because as far as prayer is concerned, the more the merrier and the greater the intrinsic power. Thousands ain’t so good if you’re sincere in praying for others, because try as I might, I can only get through the first few pages. Usually, I’ll skim through them until one or two catch my eye, and then pray as the sprit leads. Some concern calamitous circumstances, their urgency dripping from the page like sweat; while others are less dismal. Some are so amusing; that if you didn’t know it was an adult writing, you’d think it was a 12-year-old writing to Santa Claus. All reveal, to some extent, the character and heart of the sender. It’s become glaringly evident to me, that we are our prayers. This particular one caught my attention today:

I ask for prayer for my dear friend, Jennifer, a divorced single mother who has been unemployed for more than two years and struggles every month to find a way to support her family.

We met this year & quickly found a friendship. Our love for each other that has deepened.

Please pray that Jennifer finds a steady job that provides enough income for her to support her family.

While I have struggles of my own, my only wish for Christmas is for the Lord to give Jenifer what she needs.

Please pray for her.

-Ron

Today – this Christmas Eve-  my prayer is that Ron has his prayer request answered.

And as that famous little Dickens’ character said, “God bless us, everyone…”

www.graceprayer.org

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