Is it Materialism or is it Repositories of Memories?

I have not had the ability to travel as I would like in recent years.  As I cannot sit for long periods of time, it is virtually impossible to take flights.  The ridiculous security measures undertaken after the events of 11 September make the business of air travel miserable in any case.  The only times I have gone anywhere, therefore, I have travelled by sea.

My memories are a little different, I suspect, from most of the tourists who took the same cruises as I.  Today, in my ongoing, lengthy war against the 'worms with wings', I decided to open the bag that contained my abayah from Tunisia.

I remember every port on that cruise vividly, even though we spent less than a day at each destination.  For me, Tunisia was Carthage, the Roman Empire and the P.L.O.  For many of the tourists, it was simply a random destination where they chose an excursion simply to be able to take photographs to show their friends.  Unfortunately, when one is scheduled to be in any port for less than 8 hours, one is very limited.  Commercial cruise excursions sometimes are the only way to see anything.

We took an excusion to the hill that was the centre of old Carthage and now has a cathedral that was trasnformed into a museum.  For me, the most memorable item there was a gorgeous, majestic Evergreen that may have sprouted from a seed descended from the ancient Trees worshipped by the followers of Attis.  In other words, the ancient ancestor of the Yuletide or Christmas Tree as well as the Cross upon which Christ was crucified.

The coach took us to the hill and then was scheduled to take us briefly into Tunis and finally to a little blue and white town called Sidi Bou Said, painted by presidential edict in the colours of blue and white and designated as a tourist spot.  I wanted to see the location of the old headquarters of the P.L.O. in Tunis but our coach driver, although admittedly fascinated by my interest, declared that it would not be possible to make the detour.  In Sidi Bou Said, while most of the tourists went off to have a carefully orchestrated guided tour of a coffee house and some souk stalls, I was determined for find an authentic abayah.

It was not easy, I have to admit.  When I asked about clothing, I was shown stuff made from synthetics, much of which actually was not even made in Tunisia.  Many of the women's clothes were made in India.  I finally found a shop where, after waiting for awhile in the front room filled with tatty souvenirs, I was shown into a dim back chamber more like a warehouse than anything else.  It was dusty and there were all sorts of shrouded rugs and items of clothing on shelves.  The owner pulled down a wrapped garment and then unfolded it, revealing a dark brown felt cloak or abaya.  He told me that it was the same kind that the president of Tunisia wore (for the sake of expressing solidarity with his people, no doubt) and furthermore, that he had only one.  The price was very high, but not as high as the hand-woven goat's wool jackets that he had and which I wished I could have bought as well.  We bargained in the time-honoured fashion over the price of tha abayah and at last, I took it away with me.  I almost missed the coach back to the ship which made my traveling companion irate... but then, he always was irate with me whenever he went on an excursion.  He did not wish to draw attention to himself or be anything other than a part of the general herd.  he hated the fact that there always was someting specific I wished to see or do and would not be a part of it in most cases.  Never mind... I found my treasure and have it still.

It is the softest, warmest garment imaginable BUT extremely impractical.  There are no openings for the arms.  The shop owner showed me how it was worn but basically it was more of a blanket than a garment in which a person could perform any sophisticated movements.  It has a faint odour of manure, shared by all of the camel hair and goat hair fabrics I have.

Back onboard ship, many of the women paraded about in very bright rayon machine-embroidered tops and skirts.  No nne had anything like my abaya or, if they did, they were not displaying theirs.  Nor was I.  I wrapped myself in it and went out on the balcony to watch the stars shimmering over the water.  

The recent move from one house to another, with most of my belongings still at the old place, has made me very aware of the sentimental nature of my life.  I never collected ANYTHING for its monetary value or its projected value in the future as a 'collectible'.  Everything I value either has some sentimental, aesthetic, emotional or magical attribute.  There is very little that I valued once upon a time that I do not value now, even if my enthusiasm may not be at the same level as it was at the time I first obtained the item.

The Original Thor's Hammer

We have grown so far away from our cultural roots that we often fail to see what would have been obvious to our ancestors. 

Two decades ago, before Freya was born, I planted a Birch Tree in the little garden in the centre of the city where I lived.  It was the Goddess Tree, the Tree on which the shamans of Siberia still build platforms in order to visit the other realms.  It is one of the original 'ladders to heaven'.  It never was strong enough to sustain a platform, nor steps of any kind, but it grew quite tall so that its branches reached to the second floor where there was a deck.  I decorated it with wind chimes and other offerings.  Last year, the Goddess Tree died.  It was a bad omen in a way, and it made it easier to move.

Throughout those years, the Birch showered the earth with her little seeds.  I always thought they were enchanting, and it is possible that I made the correlation with Thor's Hammer long ago and then forgot.

It was only today, when I found one on the counter of the bathroom in the new house, miles from the site of the dead Goddess Tree, that I immediately saw the shape of Thor's Hammer.  Look at the tiny seed in the centre of the photograph above.  Any one familiar with Viking talismans will see that it is precisely the shape of Thor's Hammer.  THIS is the original reason why ancients fashioned the charm from wood and metal and carried it with them.  No need to wonder why a Hammer ould have been shaped so oddly, more like a two-edged Battle Axe than any real Hammer.  It is the seed of the Birch, the Tree of Life, the Tree of Heaven for the ancient people of Northern Europe.  Even now, the White Birch is known as the 'Maiden' in some of the Northern lands.  A forest filled with those slender magical trees is utterly magical.

The Aftermath of Christmas

Trimming the Tree alone never was our own family tradition but it has become mine sadly as Freya does not participate in the ritual.  She will bake while I trim the Tree, however, which has its own benefits and I do insist that she and I together place the 'Twelve Days of Christmas' ornaments from the Metropolitan Museum stocking that Ernst sent us long ago.  Now that she is at University, she could not participate in the aftermath of taking down the Tree even if she wished to do so.  She is no longer here for Twelfth Night and cannot place her shoes out for the Three Kings.  Thus, there are some traditions that are in abeyance at present.

Taking Christmas down, whether it is the Tree, the Nativity Creches or other household decorations, is a rather sad affair.  It does have something in common with the trimming of the Tree, though.  As one holds each decoration, one recalls where and when one first obtained it, whether as a gift or a purchase.  One remembers other Christmas seasons when the same ornament was or was not displayed.  This year, I brought out many of the most expensive and valuable decorations I had and which had not been displayed for at least a decade if not longer.   With only two days to Christmas when we finally brought home the 'primary' Tree, however, I never did trim it completely with everything I would have liked to have seen on it.  Now that I am putting it all in boxes for storage until next Yuletide, I am grateful that I did not hang more ornaments this year.

Many people no longer display live trees.  They complain about the dirt, about the needles, about the slow dying of the Tree in the house.  Instead, they bring out an artificial Tree.  Sometimes the artificial Tree has all the ornaments on it ab initio, thus eliminating the entire ritual of 'tree trimming'.

To me, all of that is contrary to the symbolism of the Christmas Tree, the Evergreen that originally was the soul of Attis.  I do like having a live Tree with roots that will continue to live after the Season ends, but I feel one must have a cut tree as well as the symbol of the sacrificed God.  In the best situation, one would go out to the forest to choose a Tree and then cut it oneself with an axe.  In this family, it is as much as I can do to persuade some one to take me to a lot where cut trees are being sold.

We did have a live Tree last year.  It was a small, generic pine tree but, as is usually the case where the Tree is potted, twice the price of its cut brethren.  Through the year, I tried to keep it alive on the deck... I worried about it while we were on the Queen Mary II but the lady who took care of the Puttikins watered the plants as well.  (Some one stole both of my beautiful Jack in the Pulpits from the garden while I was gone.  I had nurtured them for more than a decade and still grieve for that loss.)

In any event, we moved from that house at the end of September and my pleas to various individuals to bring the Tree to the new house fell on deaf ears.  Finally, AFTER Christmas but before the New Year, Freya and her boyfriend brought the Tree here.  The branches on one side are dead but I hope it can recover.  I set it on the porch and placed a string of white lights on it.  It is quite beautiful and the dead branches do not show.  More than that, however, it is a symbol of an unbroken thread.  It brings the past and the future together somehow.  I do not feel this new house is MY home but the presence of the little Tree does help.

Above is the little live tree from the old house, alight in its new location.  Unfortunately, when I attempted to water it a few days ago, the temperature was so low that the water turned to ice instantly and the Tree now is frozen to the floor temporarily!  It is quite lovely, though, despite its fragile health.  I do believe that plants, like animals and human beings have souls.  To allow this Tree to languish and ultimately die would have been a crime.  If it can recover and thrive, I believe I can thrive a little in this new environment.  At least, I live in hope.

The presence of the Puttikins here is the one true indication that it is my current abode, even though most of my books and some of my treasures still remain at the old house.  The Putti still are terrified of the other rooms in this house, although Cupid is more daring than the others.  I tried to persuade him to keep me company while I took down the Christmas decorations in the sunken room.  He quickly found the fallen fern fronds and devoured them, ensuring that he would be ill a few hours later.  His only other contribution was to hide under the Tree, squeezing his rather large form under the lowest branches, covering himself with pine needles that had to be combed out before I could return him to the Silly Room.