Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Tree Full of Suns
“Nice tree,” said my neighbor, dropping off (bless her) a plate of cookies.
“Not very Christmas-y, though,” she added.
Well, no. It's a Yule tree.
That's why it's filled with Suns.
And fruits, and vegetables: all the abundance of the year gone by, and the growing season to come.
Every ornament's a prayer.
There it stands in the south, just where it always stands. Same place, same lights, same ornaments, giving the odd sense that somehow it's the same tree, back again from the forest for its annual month-long visit.
In a sense, I suppose, it is the same tree. The Tree is dead: long live the Tree.
And those other selves, reflections: in the windows to the west and north, in the wall-mirror to the east. At Yule a tree of light stands in every quarter.
The Tree Full of Suns: god, guest, altar. Fountain of light in the Days of Deepest Dark.
And every ornament a prayer.
Photo: Wren Swart
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