I started taking off the ornaments and with every unhooking the tree looked more barren. The branches seemed to sigh with relief when the heavier ornaments were removed. Despite the weight of the ornament, with each removal the needles would fall silently as I stripped it from the branch. There was already a good pile assembled on the skirt below to cushion the descent of the freshly fallen. The tree devoid of all adornment, I dragged Mr. Peppy across the snow to the burn pile in the backyard. I then turned and followed the trail of needles back into the house. As I grabbed my broom and dust pan the conversation I had with my oldest during the putting away replayed in my mind.
"Mom, look at all the mess this tree makes. Are we going to have to clean up all those needles? Why don't we just get a fake tree? If we did, you would not have to clean up all those needles everywhere. I think we should get a fake tree next year. It would be so much easier."
The needles swept up easily on the hard wood floor, but I had reached the part of the trail that had turned carpet. I sighed. It was quite a mess. I swept up what I could but there is always the ones that some how manage to weave into the fibers of the carpet. I eased myself down onto the floor and started weaving out the ones that had intended to stay. My heart was an emotional mess. The new year had not started as I planned. Emotions were brimming just below the surface. As I plucked them out one by one... this thought came to mind... there is a price for being real. Real is messy.
With every brittle pine needle I plucked I could feel the very cost of that, being real. I have never been much of a pretender. If I am hurting, you will know it. If I am happy, you will know it. I have coping mechanisms like everyone, but I am horribly awful at putting on a farce. Be careful when you ask me the rhetorical question, "How are you?" I am not the one who always answers "Fine." I truly wish at times I was better at waltzing around the fragile questions of the heart.
A few tears slipped down my cheeks. The burdens I was bearing seemed overwhelming, but living life less because you don't want the mess is just not an option for me anymore. I want the real.
I love real Christmas trees and the adventure of picking out a different tree each year. They are never the same and each year seem to have their own personalities. In fact, so much so my children started a tradition of naming the tree each year. This year Zalen named our tree Mr. Peppy. Besides that, no scentsy or candle will ever suffice to the earthy fragrance of a real tree. In my opinion the benefits far outweigh the cost of the mess.
I struggle with being real sometimes. I feel I threaten those that live in glass castles. With all the needles plucked from the carpet and swept from the floor I stood. I leaned backward, feeling the crook in the back where I had leaned and swooped during the plucking. With that task done, I picked up the pile of Christmas books to stow back away into the almost full tote. On top of the pile was the "Velveteen Rabbit". A wry smile played upon my lips.
It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. ― Margery Williams, The Velveteen RabbitGod answers us in funny ways sometimes.
I was struggling a lot with people who didn't understand. Even then, in that moment, where I was feeling loose in the joints and quite shabby, I found a deep seated comfort in embracing the mess that makes me real.
For those of you who are living life real and feeling defeated, alone or misunderstood, hang on. We are in a process of "becoming" and it is a process.
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