The coven had been together for not quite a year when we all decided to move in together. Hey, it was the 80s.
Soon our second Yule together rolled around. Naturally, we had our discussions about whether or not it was ethical to kill a tree just for purposes of decoration. Like I said, it was the 80s.
Some felt one way, some another. As it turned out, though, we didn't have to kill a tree for Yule. Instead, one offered itself.
Just before Yule, an early blizzard blew through town, dropping lots of heavy, wet snow. The weight of the snow snapped off a tall, slender arbor vitae in the back yard.
(By the way, for those of you who didn't happened to grow up speaking Latin, arbor vitae means “tree of life.” Interesting.)
So we dragged the tree into the house and decked it out. Goddess will provide.
This being early on in our pagan careers, we didn't have much in the way of Yule ornaments between the lot of us. So we hung the tree with jewelry instead. Pagans, of course, have lots of jewelry that looks good on a Yule tree. Interestingly, the German word for Yule tree ornaments—Tannenbaumshmuck—means exactly that: fir tree jewelry.
So that was our first coven Yule tree together. But there's a coda to the story.
Early in January, our house was broken into.
(This was to be the occasion of our first coven curse, but that's a story for another night.)
They took some cash, they took some drugs. (80s again.) They took pretty much all the jewelry they could find.
All but what was on the Yule tree. Who would think to look on a Yule tree for something to steal?
So that's the story of the Yule tree that Saved the Coven Jewelry. As it happens, it's a true story.
And let us all say: So mote it be.
Photo: Wren Swart