The Family Tree

It's after a good old-fashioned family get-together that I find myself reclining into the comfort of my well-worn "thinking" chair, evaluating the family trees of which we are all a branch, stick, root, blossom or termite.  (I use the last example tongue-in-cheek, of course, but we all know who they are in our own families).

The trunk of the tree stands tall and revered - the matriarch - in my family's case, my mom. The call to order and benediction of each family assembly is comprised of a time-tested rite, so deeply embedded into tradition that one dare not question its relevance.  It is the embrace, an act bestowed upon us with arms outstretched, her way of validating our existence.  She is the family warrior, her fortitude undaunted by the slightness of her stature.

Next on the hierarchical totem pole is the shaman,who raises the spirits of family-past through legends and memories.  The shaman's purpose is to resurrect genealogical history, keeping each generation tethered to its roots.  Like an archaeologist with a pick ax they unearth the valuable family fossils, encapsulating them in pride and respect.  In my family, she's my aunt.  Next to her, at this seat of distinction, is my cousin, ahead of me in years, wisdom and grace.  Together, when prodded, they can also call up the spirits of those who, some would say, should have been left to slumber - the forebears with an ax to grind or a booby trap to pull.  They are no less players, though, and deserve at least a little stage time, if for no other reason than to serve as the comedy or dark satire for posterity.

Tribal pecking order continues to the hunters and gatherers.  We are the generation that take up the torch, plan the party, bring the food, clean up the food, make sure the kids have had their fill and snuff the burning grasses when the ceremonial smudge is done.  When the little ones have retired to their car seats and embark on their journey home, the hunters gather around the embers, taking in the quiet and telling stories.  

The family chain continues, younger generations linked into the trunk by birth but forging their own paths, stretching out their woody fingers and producing tiny new stems, reaching the tree upward toward the sun for renewal through the fledgling growth.   

And, under girding the entire topiary, is the root system, solid and secure, the foundation to the whole.  My dad is among them now.  The only root most of us have a visceral connection with and the one whose presence is most keenly felt in a spiritual sort of way.   He speaks to us through his silence; through the idiosyncratic and corporeal characteristics of his progeny as we gather to eat, play and laugh.  The family gathering is our right and our responsibility, to those who have gone before.  It keeps us anchored to who we are and from where we have come.