The Tree That Survived The Winter by Mary Fahy - A tale for transitions

The tree awakened earlier than usual one morning and stretched her arms toward the horizon as if to invite the early rays of dawn into her world. She shivered with delight, wiggling her roots in the muddy earth, which had only recently yielded its frozen hardness.

She sensed something was different. Her roots seemed to be extending further and more firmly into the soil. Her arms seemed to embrace more of the world, not with the timid gestures of a sapling afraid of tangling with the wind, but with the freedom of knowing that the wind could not topple her.

"I have survived the winter!" she marvelled aloud.

"How wonderful," whispered the dawn, who had a facility for appreciating new miracles no matter how often they occurred. She swirled around the tree in a ritual of blessing, enveloping her gently, making her feel very special.

"How very different this feels," mused the tree, for a few short weeks ago the melting earth beneath her roots had sent shivers of panic through every single branch, She had cried out in alarm then, sensing that she might sink into the earth] and lose herself. often during the cold winter...., while she had trembled with anxiety she had felt an inner voice -- a small but steady voice -- which remained fluid and alive when everything else in her seemed paralyzed.

But now -- now! -- she was filled with the realization that her inner life was in harmony with the world outside. She relaxed the tight fibres of her being which she had unwittingly held rigid during the cold gray months.

"I have survived the winter!" she exulted.

"You have survived the winter!" the birds echoed, hopping eagerly from branch to branch, bouncing on the tender extensions of herself that the tree had not even noticed.

"Oh!"

This one word, spoken softly and reverently, was all the tree could manage as she examined the white buds beginning to show through the tips of her branches, once held hard-clenched against the winter winds.

I have survived the winter," the tree sighed, "and I have grown!"

Days passed, and the energy within her fairly exploded, spilling out into dusters of lovely blossoms. She watched each day as they grew larger and more beautiful.

A blush of pink coursed through her petals. The tree stood speechless.

You have survived the winter because you are, and were, and always will be very much loved," said the sun. "For that small place deep within you that remained unfrozen and open to mystery, that is where I have made my dwelling. And long, long before you felt my warmth surrounding you, you were being freed and formed from within in ways so deep and profound that you could not possibly know what was happening."

"I...I...I had hope," she whispered, noticing that the words seemed to come from that inner space deep within her.

"Yes, you had hope," sparkled the sun. You trusted in life and that is what enabled you to grow. For if you had no hope and trust in the centre of your being, you could not have blossomed into you."

This was almost too much joy for the tree to hear. No words would come, and no words were necessary.

Weeks passed and the tree became a part of life in the meadow. She caught the kites of children who gathered nearby, and happily tossed them back again.

"You are a good sport," they said to her. "We will call you Friend."

A young couple sat in the shade of her thickening leaves and spoke of their love for one another. "This is a special place," they said, and they left their initials on her toughened bark.

"We shall call you Keeper of Secrets," they said to her.

A tired woman, bent with care, walked silently through the meadow, oblivious to everything except her own worries. She did not notice the tree.

"Come and rest for a while," whispered the tree, but she finally had to toss a piece of fruit onto the path before the woman saw her. Wearily, the woman sat and ate the fruit, and pondered deeply. The tree could feel the woman relax as she rested against her trunk.

Finally the woman stood up. "Thank you," she said and embraced the tree. The tree winced, for the woman had touched a spot that had not healed from the winter's ravages -- a spot that remained vulnerable even though the spring and summer months had been good to her. The woman seemed to notice and caressed the spot thoughtfully. At that moment there was a oneness -- a sense of understanding between the troubled woman and the tree.

"I will call you Hope," whispered the woman, and touched her again with affection and gratitude.

Long after her fruit had been shared and she began noticing touches of scarlet in her leaves, the tree still carried deep within her the memories of all her experiences.

"Who could possibly have imagined all that has happened to me?" she said to no one in particular.

And then addressing herself to the sun, she said, "...except you!"

"Have you seen? Have you heard?" she asked eagerly. "I am needed! I am wanted! I am named! Aren't they beautiful names? I am called Friend, and Keeper of Secrets, and Hope."

"Indeed," replied the sun, splashing a smile across the evening sky. "And what is the name I have given you?"

"You named me?" the tree asked, astonished at her lack of awareness. "Long before you were a seedling," the sun replied solemnly. "What do you call me?" she asked. Watching the sun slide behind the farthest hill, she stood motionless, waiting in the promise of the newly-painted sky.

"What do you call me?" she asked again in the stillness of the night. The small voice from within said,"You are called Faithful."

"You are called Faithful" blinked the evening star, as if to reassure her. 

Notes

Time is limited today, but I wanted to share this story continuing the theme of transitions and transformation.

A story from the mountains of Mexico exploring transformation

The Bone Woman

There was a young girl who married an old, old man who treated her badly.  He worked her hard, beat her, starved her, and cast her off when she gave him no children, leaving her in the desert with no food, or water, or shelter.  The young wife hid in the meagre shade of rocks by day when the sun was fierce.  By night she walked, crying for she could not find her way home.  The nights were cold.  Wolves prowled the hills and vultures flew above her head.  She was hungry, thirsty, weary and she walked till she could go no further.  Lying down, she wrapped herself in a long white skirt.  She said “Let the Bone Woman take me, for I am spent”, and she died.  Wild animals ate her flesh.  Her spirit watched over the white bones and knew neither sorrow nor fear.

The bones lay in that secret place until the moon was full once more.  Then the Bone Woman came and put them all in her woven sack.  The old woman took the bones up to her cave high in the mountaintop, then laid them out beside the fire.  She sat and smoked.  She smoked and thought.  She smoked and thought for a long, long time.  Then she began to sing.  “Flesh to bone!  Flesh to bone!  Flesh to bone!”.  The Bone Woman sang and before long the bones began to knit themselves together, covered in flesh.  Where the girl had once been red and rough, now she was soft and smooth.  Her skin was as gold as daylight and her hair as black as night.  The Bone Woman sang and sang.  She blew a puff of tobacco smoke.  The young woman’s eyes flew open and she sat up and looked around her.

The cave was empty.  The ashes were cold.  The old Bone Woman had disappeared.  All that was left were tobacco seeds, and she put them in her pocket.  She left the cave and started for home, following the rising sun.  She knew she would find her village walking this way and so she did.  She came upon her dwelling at last.  The place was dark and deserted now.  “That old man has died, that poor wife has died.  Come away from that place,” the people said, for they didn’t recognise the lovely young woman who came to them out of the west.  They gave her a name, a fine set of clothes, a new dwelling place, a goat, and a hen.  They taught her human speech, for she had forgotten all that she knew.  She planted the Bone Woman’s seeds and tended the new plants carefully.  In time she married and gave her young husband many gold-skinned daughters and black haired sons, and her children’s children’s children still grow tobacco in that village today.

Notes

I discovered this story within a newspaper article concerning rites of passage.  The author refers to it as a story from the mountains of northern Mexico.  I couldn’t find any other references to it - I call it The Bone Woman. 

The bone people from the old Spanish land-grant farms and the Pueblos are said to bring the dead back to life.  There are stories of an old woman whose sole purpose is that of collecting bones.  The woman is referred to by many names: La Huesera (Bone Woman), La Trapera (the Gatherer) and La Loba (Wolf Woman).  La Loba is said to have principally collected wolf bones, which she would take back to her cave and sing to create their flesh.  The wolf would then run out of the cave and in doing so transform into a laughing woman!

This story speaks to me of rites of passage and transformation – shedding flesh to get closer to our inner world.  Anthony Stevens (1990) writes that ‘[t]ransition from one quarter to the next is a time of potential crisis for everyone’.  He continues to say that each passage is a separation from previous circumstances and a rebirth to the new.  Primitive societies developed rituals to help individuals through these transitions and powerful symbolism of these ensured that archetypal needs for that particular stage in the individual’s development were met. 

I have mainly used this story in training settings, however I think it provides an opportunity to explore thresholds and those less predictable transitions.

Just Enough - A Traditional Russian Tale of Loss

Adapted by Elisa Pearmain (www.healingstory.org)

Once upon a time there lived a tailor's son named Joseph. He worked beside his father in his little shop cutting and stitching clothing for the wealthy folks in town. As he grew older Joseph began to dream of making something special for himself to wear. He pictured a warm coat made of colourful fabric. For many years he saved the few coins that he got from helping his father. Finally he had enough to buy the cloth that he wanted.

Joseph went to the market and bought the piece of cloth he had been dreaming of. It was a warm gray with bits of gold and silver and even a little crimson here and there. That night while his father was sleeping, he went to the shop. He laid out the pieces of fabric, and made a careful plan. He measured, then he cut and he stitched. After several nights of working, the young man had made himself a fine coat. When the tailor saw the work his son had done he felt proud. “You are a tailor now in your own right,” he said. “You have done fine work.” Joseph loved his coat. It was warm and colourful and everyone looked at it. He wore it everywhere, and the seasons past.

One afternoon when Joseph had been buying cloth in the market for his father, it began to rain. It was a cold rain. People were running. He saw a young woman, about his age. She was wearing only a thin shawl to keep her from the cold. She looked so sweet that Joseph took off his coat and offered to let her wear it home. She liked his face too, and within two years Joseph and Anna were married.

Joseph made his own tailor shop in the basement of their small apartment. He continued to wear his coat. He wore it, and he wore it and he wore it, until he had worn it out. What a sad day that was as he held his coat up, turning it round. He spoke to Anna in a sad voice, “This old coat, it has meant so much to me, it was my first dream come true, it made my father proud, it helped me to meet you, but now there is nothing left, nothing…”

But then he stopped, “Hee hee”, he laughed out loud, “There is something left, just enough…” and instead of throwing the coat in the rag bin, he took it to his workbench and he began to measure, and to cut and stitch. By morning, he had made a lovely jacket.

He loved that jacket. He wore it everywhere. Soon his wife gave birth to twin girls. When they were a year old he looked outside one night and saw the first snowflakes falling. “Come on girls,” he said, picking them up and tucking one into each side of his jacket and buttoning them in. “We will go taste the first snow flakes of winter.” The girls laughed in amazement as the big flakes melted on their noses and tongues. Joseph was so happy; he danced round and round holding his two darlings under his warm jacket.

Yes, he loved that jacket. He wore it for years. He wore it and wore it and wore it, until one day Anna remarked to him that it was all worn out. That was a sad day as he held the jacket up. “Old jacket, you've meant so much to me.  I'll never forget how I danced with the twins in the first snow. But there is nothing left, nothing….”

But again he stopped, “ Hee hee, what is this I see? There is just enough here, just enough.”  And instead of throwing the jacket into the rag bin, he went to his workbench and began to measure, and to cut, and to stitch. In the morning he had made a cap. It was a lovely cap with a small brim and a lining to keep his head warm in winter.

He loved that cap. He wore it everywhere. Time past and then his girls were thirteen years old. It had been a hard year. There was a famine in the land, the crops were poor, even the rich were not buying new clothes. The tailor's family had very little to eat, mostly potatoes, cabbage, or a carrot from Anna's garden, but never anything sweet.

One day they went into the forest at the edge of the town to collect firewood. All of a sudden Anna began shouting, “Berries, come see all of the berries!” The family stuffed their faces with berries, but there were still more. “If only we had something to carry them in, I would make a pie.” Anna said. What did they have to carry them in? Joseph's cap! The cap was filled to brimming with beautiful black berries. Their purple juice left a permanent stain, but the taste of a berry pie after so much hunger was worth it.

The years went by again and Joseph continued to wear his hat until one day, he looked at it, and he realized that it was all worn out. He held the cap, turning it round, “Old cap, you've meant so much to me, but now there really is nothing left, nothing, Hee hee,” he laughed. “There's enough here, just enough.”  Instead of throwing it away he went to his workbench and cut and stitched, until he had made a bow tie.

What a handsome bow tie it was. He wore it everywhere. He wore it to his daughter's weddings, and the births of his grandchildren. When his first grandson was old enough to speak he sat on Joseph's lap and played with his bow tie. “Grand Papa you have a butterfly on your shirt”, the boy cried. From then on every time he played with the grandchildren he would take off his bow tie and pretend that it was a butterfly.

One day when Joseph's hair had long been gray, he came home from the market and took off his coat. “Where is your bow tie?” Anna asked him, for he was never without it. He felt for it, but it was gone. “It must have fallen off.” As fast as his old legs would let him, he jumped up retraced his steps through the market place. He went back to every shop asking at each stall. Everyone knew of his bow tie, but no one had seen it. “I won't give up,” He told Anna. “I have to find it.” It was not until late in the night that Anna was finally able to guide old Joseph home, sad and weary. He got into bed without his supper.

The next day he refused to get up. “What's the use,” he said, “My bow tie, is gone. The cloth that I loved is gone, now there is nothing left. Nothing. I have been through so much with that cloth, I feel as if I have lost someone near and dear.”  Joseph did not hear it, but now it was his wife who laughed quietly. She put on her shawl and went to her daughter's homes. “Bring your children,” she said. They all came and plopped down on the bed. “Oh I can't play today,” said Joseph, “I am too sad, I have lost my bow tie, I have lost so many dear memories.”

“Tell us about the cloth dad,” said one of his daughters, “Your grandchildren do not know all of the stories.” “Oh, it is too sad.” He said. “Please Grand Papa,” The children begged. “Alright, I will” he said slowly. He told them about making the coat, and making his father proud. He told about putting the coat over the young woman in the market and meeting his wife. He told about dancing in the snow with his two young babies. He told about the cap full of berries. As he recalled all of these memories the tears fell slowly down his cheeks. He told about wearing the bowtie to his daughters' weddings and the births of his grandchildren. And his eldest grandchild chimed in, “You made your bow tie into a butterfly Grand Papa. Maybe it flew away.”

Old Joseph was quiet for a while. “Yes, it seems that my beloved bow tie did fly away, but you have helped me to see that the memories I have that are so dear to me did not. There were just enough memories left in this old noggin to make a story. And that story will never be lost if you will help me keep it.” Then Joseph the Tailor hugged his family close and got out of bed. His story was passed down through many generations.

Notes

I have told this story in a variety of settings as a way of exploring individual’s experience of loss and grief.

Using this story with people with dementia seemed to provide opportunities for individuals to reconnect with aspects of their lives that had been important to them, and have these personal stories witnessed by others.  In reconnecting with the object of our loss, perhaps we can redefine our relationship with it and allow it to live on.

I told this story in a session with an individual who has a learning difficulty and mental health problem.  The idea of death and loss at times seems to overwhelm him and his referral was based on exploring these issues.   As this story contains familiar and tangible objects, he was perhaps more able to relate to it.  He appeared to follow the process of the story, seeing the object reduce in size without losing its value and finally disappear.  He appeared to connect with Joseph’s despair and this in turn seemed to allow him to connect with and share emotions/pain around his own losses. 

I also took this story to a Dementia Care Home Managers’ Conference.  The number of delegates and the size of the space available meant that two sessions were run.  I repeated the same session with each group.  While there were many factors that will have influenced their responses, the dynamic and outcome of each group experience was significantly different.  The first group seemed to respond with lots of playful energy and humour – their shared stories appearing light and often funny.  The second group’s response seemed to connect with the pain of loss and the group supported those whose emotions seemed very raw.   For me this gave a snapshot of the many different ways we may respond to loss and grief and how ‘Just Enough’ can facilitate this journey.