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Illustration by Christine Wei
This year, my relationship to the cult of the Christmas tree – the purchase-decorate-admire-and-discard ritual – is being transformed.
I wanted a more positive alternative to the usual Christmas tree choices. I ruled out buying (or personally cutting down) a tree grown on a plantation of mono-cultured plants requiring water and land – and likely pesticides, fungicides and fertilizer (or some combination thereof). I didn’t want to buy a potted non-native evergreen grown with similar substances that might be prone to dying once replanted, or buy a fake tree with its own environmental consequences. But I didn’t want to forgo a Christmas tree altogether. Instead, I pitched that we “borrow” our potted cedar and do a two-stage move from our back deck to the unheated porch, to the living room.
It all started some seven years ago when my life partner and I noticed a tiny cedar-like plant in the flower planter on our back deck that was hosting a small, robust lilac. Time passed, the lilac died, the cedar grew. And grew. Soon we had a small white cedar tree that more or less took care of itself, with the occasional watering. Having no good spot in our small yard for yet another tree, we watched it slowly develop, waiting for the right time and place to transplant it.
“Pressed into service,” as my partner jovially states, I admit our small scraggly tree isn’t imparting much refreshing piney smell. It appears to make for a wimpy replacement of its cultivated counterparts, with its asymmetrical branches and flimsy boughs that barely support a carefully curated fraction of our collection of tree decor: colourful electric lights, a delicate glass Krampus head, a gold potato, decorative balls and glittering birds, a translucent star and wooden planets.
I usually find myself apologizing to a Christmas tree for cutting its life short solely for my (very brief) joy and entertainment, but this year I have an entirely new set of thoughts and feelings. First, the immense pleasure knowing this white cedar will be returned alive to the outdoors to function as a plant native to our region. Second, a sense that our small act of relocating – okay, you could say kidnapping – and decorating this tree extends our Solstice celebration and Christmas into the new year.
And then I wondered, is this tree missing anything important being inside these few weeks? I touched a bow, felt its texture. Oh, yes … the network. Of course! “The network” I’ve been reading up on refers to native bees, plants and microbes that affect one another in complex webs of interaction, often in mutually beneficial ways. I ask myself, what happens – or more to the point, doesn’t happen – with a wind-pollinated tree, a native plant moved inside from the outdoors, even a potted one? All year long, this cedar fashions sunlight and carbon dioxide into sugars, resins and scents, pollen, pine cones and needles. It hosts birds and squirrels, stashed walnuts and acorns, worms, nematodes, tardigrades, moss and lichen. It catches wayward pollen grains and shelters six-legged visitors whose brief encounters leave pheromones, bacteria, fungi and smaller hitchhikers still, who in turn wend their way to the next wing, tarsi, beak, water droplet or spiderweb. And this year, our tree pauses for a brief time, shuffled to a warmer space, lifting human spirits with evergreen, with beauty, with life, before returning to the vast outdoor network, to sunlight and interactions with the world.
Some day we’re sure to find a suitable spot to plant our “volunteer” tree friend. But for now, I delight in my new-found appreciation, sense of wonder and more keenly felt respect for this young, white cedar, Thuja occidentalis.
Sarah Peebles lives in Toronto.
