It happens every January, and still it surprises me. When John and Zack drag the brittle tree from its pedestal and onto the landing pad for trash pick up, space arrives in her place. Granted the pile of prickles needs to be vacuumed, and the extension cord winding from the outlet to the lights must be coiled up like a rattler. But after all of that there is an openness that wafts like a breeze. Even though it is still winter and I will not be opening the windows anytime soon. 

 

I wanted the tree. Cedar was a welcome guest for a month, extending her arms to suspend hundreds of stars, and Santas, angels, and glass balls which in turn evoke their own memories. I can barely hold my own limbs up for a hundred tight circles, as I have taken to doing in a post holiday revolt against lethargy. 

 

We anticipated Cedar's arrival, and paid money for her. But now it is a relief that she is gone. Her presence pushed us all into coziness, which we wanted. But the flip side is a sacrifice of elbow room, or in the case of the couch, knee room. 

 

Her absence also affords me a better view of the quilt on that wall. Which brings me joy. I read in Richard Rohr that people often use the word discovery to describe the epiphany of seeing things as if they have suddenly appeared, while the truth is that they were there all along. Cortes is credited with discoveries in the New World, but it was only new because he had been ignorant. Mexico, or the land we boldly name as such, was certainly self aware before he came along. 

 

There was a time when I needed to know where my children were. It was in fact my job, though there was no interview. Particulars such as what they ate, and who they were with fell under my jurisdiction. But that season has mostly slid out the door. 

 

Being a mother was a sweet foray into new lands, abundant with starry moments and coziness on the couch. Yet the discovery that their welfare is in a larger pair of Hands brings a spaciousness I was ignorant of.