The difference between us and the trees is not just the nuts.

“And then Jonah heard God’s voice.
“Jonah, do you know what the difference is between you and the trees?”
He was confident it was God because God usually asked questions but gave no answers. Jonah didn’t need a divine answer to this question, he knew it.
“Yes,” he said. “The difference between me and the trees is that the trees let go of their leaves. I keep holding onto mine. The trees make room for new life. I don’t.”

― David W. Jones, Going Nuts!

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I absolutely love this little quote. I found it while looking around for a new insightful but lighthearted new read—this time of year, my mind oddly turns to mush with the body merely waiting to follow suit. Which just might have something to do with the endless jaunts to this store and of the endless searches for a parking space that is within a mile of the door to the store—even parking at the grocery store seems to be along the lines of Mission Impossible. Let’s not discuss traffic shall we, as it seems to only intensify during this time of year–the roads full of panicy idiotic shoppers. There just seems to be a heightened sense of anxiety out on the streets.

Madness is all about this time of year as people seem to have lost all sense and sensibility. Why is it that we spend almost a year’s salary in all of about 2 weeks–buying “gifts” for everyone we seem to know, doubting our original choices, only to dash out again, adding to the burgeoning sacks of the “perfect” gifts squirreled away as they await the ceremonial wrapping? And why is it that we spend hours (mothers and sales folks) laboriously encasing said gifts in yards and yards of colorful papers, struggling with ribbons, tape and bows just to have that artistic hard work torn off in mere seconds—why is that?

Why is it that we will get out of our car, in the middle of the mall’s parking lot, in order to drag the driver of an opposing car out by their collar, in order to beat them silly as they dared to “take” the parking spot we had been eyeing for the past 40 minutes as we circled the parking lot like a buzzard?! Why is it that just as we reach for the perfect size of the perfect sweater, which is the only one left on the hanger in that perfect size and color, it is suddenly pulled away by a little old lady who shoots a look as if to say “I’ll beat the crap out of you if you don’t let go”—

The madness has even filtered here to the bastion of civility, my house, my home. As I was making my 15th trip from the attic last weekend, carrying musty treasure box upon box, ladened with the Christmases of ages past, I ask out loud, for no one in particular to hear but me, “Are we having fun yet?”
I answered.
What is it they say about talking to one’s self??!!
It’s ok until you start to answer. . . hummmmmm. . . .trouble may be brewing. . . and by the way, “NO” was the answer.

Five of the dearest people in my life have birthdays within the next week, with the last one falling actually on Christmas day itself—My son, his fiancé (what are those odds?!), my godmother, my godfather and my stepmother. So not only will I be buying the perfect Christmas gifts, I will be buying the perfect Birthday gifts as I prepare 3 perfect birthday meals complete with 3 perfect individual cakes.

But what type of cakes. . .hummm. . . Rum cake sounds fun—might as well make something “medicinal”—a little for me, a little for the cake, a little more for me a little less for the cake—wasn’t this a full bottle of rum? Suddenly the room is spinning. . . maybe chocolate will be a safer bet.

I’ve always been bad to put pressure on myself to make things “magical” for those I love while, in the process, killing myself. Last year I thought it would be so magically special to order our son some little Austrian doozie of a cake–the picture just looked so pretty.
“Didn’t you like your cake, you hardly touched it?”
“Mother, you know I just like your cakes, this one is way too rich”
Oh well. . .so much for special and perfect.
Why is it that I feel the need to make each occasion so very special I wonder? I realize I don’t delegate, I never have been very good at that. I tend to hold on to the whole kit and kaboodle—only to wonder why it is that what I’ve done is simply nothing like the picture of perfectness as seen in the image of the magazine or book—and lets not talk about things like Pintrest that has all the younger generation attempting their hands at magical. . .

Maybe I need to blame the Diva of Domestic Goddess Bliss. Miss Perfect of the house and home. Her magazines, television shows, her guest appearances on the morning news shows—she’s everywhere, along with her perfect self and perfectly beautiful condescending smile. Her coif perfectly stationary as she shovels the sh*# from the stalls of her thoroughbred stallions, while wearing her $500 Le Chameau muck lucks and beautiful name brand barn jacket and jodhpurs making even the shoveling of the s#*t appear to be a fine and manageable art (you are now hearing the heavy sigh of resignation). . .

As we now enter the long shadows of yet another year, may we all remember the true reason for our madness ( I do think love is really hidden in there somewhere)— May we lay the stress and the odd need to be able to “do it all and to do it all right now for everyone” down at the base of the tree, the makeshift altar of a season that has unfortunately spun out of control. May we learn what the trees seem to know better than we do, that the letting go of the old, in order to make way for the new, is sometimes more important than holding on to things and traditions merely for the sake of “because it’s always been done like that.” Change can be good and new traditions can be just as special as those long entrenched memories.

Those beautiful autumn colored leaves eventually turn brown, sadly falling away from the trees. . . but come Spring. . .the tender new bright green shoots are such a welcomed delight. Some things must “go” in order to make way for the new—despite our stubborn clinging and holding onto–children grow up and lives change—it’s not the perfection that everyone will remember but rather, it is simply the magic of being together–the laughter, the hugs, the conversations, the smiles on the faces as contentment creeps in from just the mere fact that we are together again. . .

May you all enjoy spending time, over the next couple of weeks, with those in your lives who matter the most to you. Forget the perfection of cleaned houses, beautifully wrapped gifts and magazine worthy food, just enjoy the moments of love and fellowship of your family and friends. Happy Holidays. . .now where is that recipe for that rum cake. . .

4 comments on “The difference between us and the trees is not just the nuts.

  1. Great post, Cookie. The last 3 paragraphs say it all so well. Blessings, Natalie 🙂

  2. Val says:

    LOVE THIS!!! Life is too much right now, so…I paint. Surrealist expressionism. I spent yesterday painting a volcano. Nothing says “I cannot deal withholiday stress” quite like prophetic art of Psalm 55:4-8 (NIV). Today I painted 1 Thessalonians 5:11 (THE MESSAGE), so I suppose it all evens out.

  3. Val says:

    Meh, I don’t drink anyway so wouldn’t touch the stuff. As soon as I can scan it to satisfaction and frame it, it’s going to an art therapist friend of mine. She’s the only person I can think of (besides me) that would hang something that looks — literally — like a flaming nightmare (but in a *good* way) actually on her wall. I told her this morning that I think I’m creating my own psalter…but with the darkest verses first.

    I’ve become really good at rendering fire in watercolor colored pencils.

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