The tree of life and a dream about death
Straddling the ridge of the roof, my dad stretched to cut the top of a dead tree with a saw. I was on the ground, holding the ends of a rope looped around the trunk. Once cut, I was to pull the tree away from the house. This was late February. My mom died the week prior. No longer a tree of life, my dad was afraid that this dead thing might bring the house down.
The night before this, I dreamt about a gnarly and squat living tree. In the dream, I dangled from a branch that ran parallel to the earth. As I hung there with my arms extended, my feet didn’t touch the ground. This branch and dream-tree reminded me of a real branch and olive tree (different than the dead one being cut) that remains in front of my parents’ house in the Bay Area. In their neighborhood, all of the streets are named after trees as the area was once an orchard. Developed before I was born, the orchard remains in name only, a nod to the past.
The second tree from the corner
As for the real olive tree, I used to play on it ad nauseam. I’d hang there, much like in the dream, and pretend to do pull ups. Sometimes, this branch would become a skyscraper that I’d scale. Other times, the branch was a rope flung over a ravine, dangerous rocks or lava below. I always seemed to cross the chasm with ease, even if poisoned darts were thrown at me. Or knives. Or barracudas. Whatever the branch became, I scooted from one end to the other, scaffolded by an unconsidered tree. In retrospect, it was the branch, not me, that was strong. My imagination merely absconded with the branch’s power. As the branch ran parallel to the ground, it was a parallel life force to my weight and mind. Such, too, is the nature of parents and their children. For a time.
But when the bough breaks
Hanging onto that branch in the dream, I couldn’t tell you how old I was (either 37, my age at the time, or six, an age when I was much more accustomed to hanging from branches). Either way, the feeling was known. I’d been here before…
And then…just like that…the branch snapped at the trunk, and I came falling down.
East of eden
When I landed, I found myself not in lava but rather on my feet and holding the branch, and that was the end of the dream. Upon waking and for the next year, I took this dream to mean the loss of my mom. There was this branch, afterall, a once life giving thing that had supported me and was now lifeless in my hands. It was dead and had been – unconscious to myself, perhaps – aging and dying for a long time. There were many signs, of course, but I wasn’t ready to see them until the end because I’d been running from them. For one, my mom had been sick for many months. For two, she’d been sick for most of my adult life and had essentially been living in recovery. This now, as life and the dream seemed to say, was the final fall.
And into the woods
Three months before this, my mom called me from her assisted living room. I was across the country in New York. Walking my dogs on a bike trail in a wooded area, I answered my phone.
“Hi mom,” I said.
“I’m calling to say goodbye,” she said.
“What do you mean you’re calling to say goodbye?” I replied.
“Nothing’s working. Your dad will explain.” I stared ahead as a hawk flew over the road in front of me. The world seemed to spin. “Bye,” she said and hung up the phone.
From the tree of life to the tree of knowledge
When someone dies, a question inevitably follows: what to do with what remains? Do you put them in a box and tuck them away or do you carry them? Do you leave them on the ground to decompose? Focusing on the branch, I was occupied with the dead. But there’s another thing to look at in a situation like this. Like a snake, the tree, too, sheds skin towards new life to come.
Far from the tree
As is often the case with parents, my mom was the keeper of my childhood. She held those memories, that child in perpetual play, crawling, hanging, and never having to pull up. Before her death, a piece of me could remain a possibility. After her death, I’m not so sure.
When a tree falls in the forest
For me, grief takes many forms. Since her passing, I’ve been angry that she didn’t try harder to be healthier when she was alive, that she didn’t make more of an effort, that she didn’t meet my daughter. They missed each other by four months. My anger turns to sadness, then back to anger again, and proceeds to regret that I didn’t see her before she passed, that I missed saying goodbye in person, that I didn’t have a better relationship with her when she was alive, that I only made it home after she left. And then comes a deafening silence. Anger and regret at the dead, I’m learning, is like being angry or regretful toward a stick in the mud. Though real, it doesn’t really help.
The giving tree
Trees are very old life forms. Many trees are MUCH older than most people. The redwoods of California have been around for a very long time. Like most living things, they want to grow and reach for the light. Pieces break off and yet the tree remains. Most of all, what we see is only a small part of their story. There’s so much more going on underground.
The tree of life and a dream about living
In the end, what’s left in both my mind and in front of my parent’s house is a tree that suggests something still growing, reaching, and living with the possibility of more branches to come. For one, my daughter is now learning to walk, and she’s hanging all over me. Like the tree of my youth, I have a newfound role. Instead of hanging on, however, I’m the support.
Finally, when my dad’s saw cut through the tree, I ran forward and away from the house while the trunk came crashing down. It, like I, landed on the ground. There’s a difference, I’m learning, between dead and living things. It’s best to honor the dead by finding a purpose for the remains. This post is evidence that I’m still working through it. Conversely, it’s best to honor the living by continuing to be here now, and reaching both up and down. Even if living feels like being lost in the forest shadowed by doubt, I’m happy to remain among the trees for as long as possible. If I’m lucky and for my daughter’s sake, this will hopefully be for a long time yet to come. The alternative might take down the house.
References, Suggestions, and Inspiration
- Man and His Symbols by Carl G. Jung
- The Book of Symbols by Ami Ronnberg & Kathleen Martin
- Hold On to Your Kids: Why Parents Need to Matter More than Peers by by Gordon Neufeld & Gabor Maté
