The Tree in the Hoop

 

By Chris Hoffman

Theosophical Society - Chris Hoffman has facilitated human change processes in therapeutic, business, and educational settings for more than twenty years. He is the author of numerous professional articles and poems and is currently finishing a book on the Hoop and the Tree.At the climax of his great healing vision, the nineteenth-century Lakota medicine man Black Elk glimpsed the breathtaking wholeness of the universe. As poetically summarized by Black Elk's interviewer (Neihardt 36; cf Holler xx-xxi, 1, 7, and DeMallie xxii, 129-30), Black Elk saw that he was "standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw; for I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy."

The essential holiness or wholeness of the universe that brought healing to Black Elk, and to his people, appeared to him through the visual metaphor of the Hoop and the Tree. This image of the Hoop and the Tree is not accidental. It appears not only in Lakota mythology but also in various forms throughout the great wisdom traditions of the world—and indeed in modern psychology and systems science—as an image of the deep structure of wholeness and health both in the universe and in the human soul. It is an image of the beauty at the heart of everything.

The Hoop and the Tree represent two dimensions of the soul, which must be fully developed and in balance with each other for wholeness. Their combined image crystallizes the essence of our collective wisdom in a practical way that helps us to understand how we can grow toward psychological and spiritual wholeness. It also acts as a key to the great variety of spiritual and mythological ways within our human diversity. To understand the wholeness in the combined image, we must look at the separate meanings of each dimension.

The Hoop

The Hoop or circle has to do with all aspects of relationship. When people gather to eat together as a family, to sing songs, or to sit at the knee of a storyteller, they spontaneously form the shape of the Hoop. We speak of our inner or family "circle." Thus all mandalas ("magic circles") and other images of the Hoop are traditional symbols of relationship.

Native Americans honor all their relations through Hoop-shaped medicine wheels and sweat lodges. Taoists use the well-known Hoop of the yin-yang to represent being and "flowing" in right relationship with the way of nature. Psychologists do their healing within the "sacred circle" of the therapeutic relationship. The Hindu Wheel of Rebirth is the Hoop of Relationship viewed through time: I am related to you not just because we are brothers or sisters in this life, but because you may have been my great-grandfather in a previous incarnation and you may be my great-granddaughter in a future incarnation. The Hopi people honor Spider Woman, the Earth Mother, whose web makes the shape of concentric linked Hoops. We are all part of her web--humans, animals, mountains, trees, rivers--and if you touch any part of the web, the whole web will quiver.

The Tree

The Tree has to do with what the poet Robert Bly calls "vertical longing." The psychic dimension of individual growth, aspiration to a high place (something "to live up to," a "higher calling"), and profundity (the "depths of the soul") is a vertical dimension. Jung says that in order to develop one must forge a link between the upper and the lower, the conscious and the unconscious aspects of the psyche (Fordham 76-7). Traditional wisdom, as well as contemporary spiritual and psychological practice, associate this dimension with the imagery of trees, mountains, ladders, and pillars.

Traditional Tree imagery includes the Christian Tree of the Cross, the Scandinavian Yggdrasil or world ash, the Jewish Tree of the Menorah, shamanic ascent and descent via trees and roots, and the spiritual ascent of the Prophet which is the inner reality of Islamic prayer, one of the five Pillars of Islam. Development in the Tree dimension includes ascending for psychological "peak experiences" or contact with the Divine, and growing to become fruitful in our lives. It also includes descending to explore our cultural and psychological "roots." A tree can grow tall only if it has sturdy and far-reaching roots.

Hoop and Tree Together

All the great wisdom traditions teach about the importance of right relationship (Hoop) and also about the importance of individual aspiration toward some state of enlightenment or connection with the Divine (Tree). Some traditions emphasize the Hoop and others emphasize the Tree, but most point to a model of psycho-spiritual wholeness that is Hoop and Tree together.

Christianity, for example, has as its central image the Tree of the Cross, which powerfully represents ascent to connection with the Divine. According to tradition, Christ also descended from this Tree into Hades "to the extreme of its depth" in order to bring healing. Tradition also says that Christ brought the Tree of the Cross to Hades and planted it there as a witness to truth. So the Christian Tree is the axis of the universe, which runs from Hades to Paradise.

Yet the principal sacrament of Christianity is a Hoop ritual. In Holy Communion, the consecrated bread and wine are shared among all. Although the Roman Catholic Church places some restrictions on participation in this sacrament, the early Christian church and the non-Roman denominations all tend to emphasize inclusion and participation. Theologian Harvey Cox says, "Communion is like a family meal, the gathering of old and young, sick and well, around a common table and reminds all those who participate that the goods of the earth should be shared, not hoarded" (Cox 404). Holy Communion and the Cross form the Hoop and Tree of the Christian world.

Jesus Christ himself taught the Hoop-and-Tree way to wholeness. When asked about the best way to live, Jesus replied, "Love the Lord and love your neighbor" (Mark 12.30-1). That is a summary of the Tree and the Hoop teaching--the Tree aspiration to the Lord, and the Hoop relation to the community. Accept Divine love (ascent/descent along the Tree axis) and then give this love to the world (Hoop).

Each summer in the high plains of North America, hundreds of people gather in four-day ceremonies, to pray to a sacred Tree and dance around it in a sacred Hoop. As part of these Lakota sun dances, the dancers carry the spiritual renewal obtained from the Tree out to the wider Hoop of community.

People of European descent come to these dances from as far away as Australia and Germany. It is no wonder the dances resonate for them. For hundreds of years ancient Europeans danced this Hoop-and-Tree pattern in religious observations every spring. Maypole dances were performed not only in England, but also throughout Europe, from Spain to Scandinavia, though the timing of the festival varied, depending on the latitude. The Maypole itself was originally a Tree, freshly cut for each festival and paraded into town with great rejoicing. In a great Hoop round that Tree, the people danced merrily to music, celebrating a great healing--the renewal of life. In this way the Hoop and the Tree shaped one of the most important religious festivals of pre-Christian Europe.

The ancient Greeks centered their world on Mount Olympus (mountains being symbolically cognate with trees), with Zeus ruling from above and Hades from below, while the whole cosmos was bounded on the horizontal plane by the Hoop of Oceanos, who encircled the world at its outermost limits, continuously flowing back on himself in a circle.

The Tree in the Buddhist story is the bodhi tree, under which Buddha attained enlightenment, after which he carried the blessings of his achievement out into the community. His initial work of teaching is known as turning the Wheel of the Dharma, the Hoop. There is a form of shrine, widespread in the Buddhist world, called a stupa. The stupa acts as a reminder of the shape of wholeness. It is said to be "an abstract image of the state of enlightenment attainable by all beings" (Landaw and Weber 42). This shape of wholeness takes the form of a Hoop (mandala) extended upward along the Tree axis.

Judaism includes the Hoop and the Tree in the mystical practice of Kabbalah, which presents a route to the Divine called the Tree of Life, or Otz Chiim. One may follow this path to wholeness by meditating on the fruits of this Tree, called Sefiroth, literally "spheres," depicted as circles (Hoops) on the Tree. In the Kabbalistic story, the primordial ideal human, Adam Kadmon, was patterned on the Tree of Life with its Sefiroth. Thus the ideal image of wholeness has Hoops in balance on the Tree.

The Sufis of Islam actually move the shape of wholeness into the body through the celebrated dance of the "whirling dervishes" of the Mevlevi order. The dervishes start whirling slowly, spreading their arms like wings, the right palm turned upward toward the sky to gather divine grace, and the left palm turned downward to give it to the earth. The dancers whirl faster and faster to a supreme moment of union. Each dancer turns full 360-degree circles, experiencing the Koran's teaching that "wheresoever you look, there is the face of God." Here we have clearly the shape of the Hoop--the whirling--and the shape of the Tree--the upright bodies together with the hands passing grace from up to down.

The Tantric teachings of Hinduism describe the fully developed self with a Hoop-and-Tree model. According to Tantra, the human body has a set of energy centers distributed along the spine. These energy centers are called chakras, a Sanskrit word meaning "wheel." Since Hindu symbolism depicts the spine as a Tree, Tantra represents wholeness with these wheels or Hoops in alignment on the Tree.

The San Bushmen of the Kalahari practice a remarkable technology for healing and spiritual growth, which exemplifies the Tree growing within the Hoop. This practice is the !kia-healing dance (the exclamation point representing one of the four clicking sounds in their language). Within a Hoop of singers and musicians, the practitioners of !kia experience a spiritual ascension along the Tree axis toward the divine. During !kia, a practitioner may perform cures, handle fire or walk on it, have x-ray vision, see over great distances, or converse with supernatural powers. Like the good shaman or Buddhist bodhisattva, the !kia master ascends the Tree for the benefit of the community. The point is not so much in experiencing transcendence as in bringing back its fruits. To experience !kia without doing any healing would be seen as a misuse of the !kia-related powers. Here the Tree grows within the Hoop for the benefit of the Hoop.

Someone once asked Sigmund Freud to say what a healthy person ought to be able to do and do well. Freud's answer was pithy: "to love and to work" (lieben und arbeiten). Now if we understand "to work" in the sense of working toward something, then Freud's definition of health was the Hoop and the Tree: the Hoop of relationship and the Tree of aspiration.

Carl Jung was even more explicit. He analyzed thousands of dreams in his lifetime and digested an almost unimaginable amount of the world's literature on mysticism, religion, and philosophy. One of the fruits of this prodigious labor was Jung's concept of the archetype of the Self, a model of psychological and spiritual wholeness.

Jung found that symbols of the Self appear universally in dreams, visions, active imagination, and works of art, particularly spiritual or religious art. What does this symbol of psycho-spiritual wholeness look like? The Hoop and the Tree. Jung said, "If a mandala [Hoop] may be described as a symbol of the Self seen in cross section, then the tree would represent a profile view of it: the Self depicted as a process of growth" (Jung 253).

The world's wisdom traditions offer countless other examples of the Hoop-and-Tree pattern of wholeness. Perhaps this is because even the helix of our DNA carries the shape of an extended Hoop spiraling around a Tree axis. The pattern is coded in the very basis of life.

Complementary Dimensions

The Hoop and the Tree are two dimensions of wholeness, neither of which is complete in itself, neither of which is "better" than the other. They are different and complementary. The Hoop has a female tone, the Tree a male tone. The meaning of the Hoop is relational; the meaning of the Tree is aspirational. Together the Hoop and the Tree offer a model of integrating community and individuality, a way to increased understanding between men and women, and an image of what is needed for a person, or a society, to come into balance and wholeness.

We can say that the Hoop is the image by which self talks to self about the Greater Self in which we all are connected. It is through the Hoop that we connect with other living beings, with the rocks, the soil, the air, the green and growing things, the dying and the dead that fertilize new life, the person we once were, and the person we will be. The Hoop has to do with hearing the beat, getting with the rhythm, feeling the music of what is, and skillfully entering in with just the right amount of effort. The Hoop is oneself as the process of relating.

This also means that from the Hoop perspective, psycho-spiritual wholeness consists of being in relationship appropriately, imbalance is incomplete or inappropriate relationship, and healing occurs when one is restored to appropriate relationship. The Hoop says that the heart of the universe cleaves fast to your own heart, as close as lovers' hearts one to the other. We have only to stop, perceive, and be. Practice of the Hoop dimension begins the end of loneliness and alienation.

Whereas the Hoop is the affiliative aspect of wholeness, the Tree is the autonomous aspect. The Tree is a double metaphor. It stands for the great central axis of the entire cosmos, around which everything revolves, and it stands for the central axis of our own psychological and spiritual being, around which our individual experience of life revolves.

To the psyche, the Tree represents the growing core of the whole self; it is the emphasis on individual development. The Tree is the valiant sprouting of each individual life force, and each individual's urge to bear fruit. The Tree is the image by which self talks to self about its interior growing core, the core that aspires to skill, wisdom, and contact with the Divine—the core that knows where it stands in the world and that is able to draw nourishment from its ancestry and from sleep, dreams, and unconscious processes. Practice of the Tree dimension roots us in the universe and gives us strength to reach our highest ideals.

An Image of Healing

Though we live in an era of shriveled Hoop and truncated Tree, the Hoop and the Tree together give us a robust model for healing ourselves and our society.

One example of a Hoop-and-Tree approach to healing is the twelve-step recovery program pioneered by Alcoholics Anonymous. In this program you ascend the Tree by turning your will and life over to the care of the Divine, and descend into the darkness of the Tree's roots through a searching and fearless moral inventory. Then you work on mending your Hoop through making amends to all. The twelfth step is a classic Hoop-and-Tree integration: "Having had a spiritual awakening [Tree] as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs [Hoop]."

As the wisdom traditions show, the Hoop-and-Tree model is yet more profound and robust than the powerful twelve-step model. As just one example, the Hoop dimension relates us to all the universe, not just to other human beings. From the Hoop perspective we cannot be fully whole unless we act in right relationship to the entire living planet and all of its peoples and creatures by reducing, reusing, and recycling. The Hoop-and-Tree image also teaches the good news that at our best we are all ecological beings. We all belong here, we are home.

References

  • Cox, Harvey. "Christianity." In Our Religions, ed. Arvind Sharma, pp. 357-423. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993.

  • DeMallie, Raymond J. The Sixth Grandfather. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1984.

  • Fordham, Frieda. An Introduction to Jung's Psychology. Baltimore: Penguin Books, 1968.

  • Holler, Clyde. Black Elk's Religion: The Sun Dance and Lakota Catholicism. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1995.

  • Jung, C. G. Alchemical Studies. Collected Works 13. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967.

  • Landaw, Jonathan, and Andy Weber. Images of Enlightenment. Tibetan Art in Practice. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion Publications, 1993.

  • Neihardt, John G. Black Elk Speaks. New York: Pocket Books, 1972.


Chris Hoffman has facilitated human change processes in therapeutic, business, and educational settings for more than twenty years. He is the author of numerous professional articles and poems and is currently finishing a book on the Hoop and the Tree. His web site is www.hoopandtree.org .


A Tree Out There

John P. O'Grady

It has been said that each of us has a tree out there somewhere.

The difficulty these days is that you have to go in search of it. In former times it was customary—and in some places may still be—to plant a tree for good luck when a baby is born. Thus one's tree was right there in the yard, and it would grow with the child. Between them they enjoyed an intimate rapport with life, a shared destiny.

This symbolic tree was carefully tended, and if it flourished, so did the human being, but if it was afflicted with blight or if it perished, the corresponding human life suffered a fate in kind. There was an affinity between the arboreal and human realms, expressed in a language unbound by any dictionary. I have heard it said that if you know how to "read" your tree, you have a most effective oracle. All you have to do is go out there and find it.

Prince Siddhartha searched many years before finding his tree, but when he did, he sat himself down in its shade and became the Buddha. Adam and Eve found their way to a tree, one of two that grew in the Garden of Eden. It was called the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. For reasons of his own, God had told the couple to stay away from it, but they ignored the warning and ate of its fruit. God found them out and was vexed; he banished them from the Garden before they could get to the other tree. My friend Jan VanStavern found hers, a venerable maple, growing in front of her childhood home. Upon returning from school each day, she would throw her arms around it in a great embrace. Today she measures the character of those who enter her life by hugging them: the noble souls feel like the old maple tree.

I caught a glimpse of my own tree once, when I was a boy growing up in New Jersey. It was an early morning in mid-October and the trees were putting on their autumn glory. The day was still in shadow. At the edge of our backyard stood an ordinary shagbark hickory, a tree I had never paid much attention to. A hard frost the night before had fringed the hickory's golden leaves. I happened to be looking out the back window of our house when the rays of the morning sun first glanced off the tree's uppermost boughs. The tip of that shagbark suddenly became a golden flare, a flaming sword turning every which way, guarding who knows what gate.

Then just as suddenly, the shagbark let go its uppermost leaves and poured forth a slow, golden cascade upon the lawn. As the sun rose higher and its light fell lower on the tree, the same process—a moment of brilliance followed by a saffron rain of leaves—repeated itself, again and again, down the length of the canopy. For ten minutes or more I watched this go on, until the sun had undressed that tree entirely. I can't remember exactly what happened next—certainly some spectacular shift in consciousness would have been in order—but sights such as this are lost on suburban boys, and likely I went back to my Saturday morning cartoons. My tree remained unclaimed.

In high school I came across a quote by St. Bernard: "What I know of the divine," he says, "I learned in the woods." This seemed like a modest improvement upon the Catholicism I was raised in. Shortly after that I read Walden—another improvement—and decided that I, too, would go to the woods. So in college I moved to Maine and majored in forestry, where I was taught that "trees are America's renewable resource."

"Resource" is one of those funny words, commonly used but only understood uncommonly. Originally it was a verb and meant "to go back to the well (i.e., the source) and get more water." Later it came to mean a substance or material recognized to have utility for society, something that can be quantified, assigned a value, and applied to a purposeful end. Usually a resource is consumed progressively as it serves its purpose, but trees we say, because of their " renewability," escape this fate. Nowadays we speak of human resources, the renewability of which, I suppose, depends upon your faith.

In my senior year, I took a culminating course called "Forest Economics." It was not designed for those who would live in the woods. In an everyday sense, the word "economics" refers to the management of the household—making the bed, buying the groceries, balancing the checkbook—but in the university, economics is said to be "the study of the allocation of scarce resources." Applied to trees, this definition leads to some strange ways of talking. "In terms of production," the professor explained, "trees are unique because they are simultaneously the factory and the product. If only we could find some way to encourage them to harvest themselves, then we'd really be in business!"

Little of this style of thinking ever proved useful to me, but I still recall the slides the forestry professor showed of an old-growth redwood stand in California. The lecture hall all at once felt more like a cathedral than a mausoleum, and those photographic images might just as well have been stained glass. The redwoods towered with their greenness and handsome branches, their crowns lost in a misty rustle among the coastal clouds. Later, when I finally made it to California, I learned that the birds of heaven, here called marble murrelets, nested in the lofty redwood boughs, and ten thousand mysteries were lodged in the fern-thickened shade of the forest floor. The professor said nothing of all this; his mind was elsewhere. "Hurry up and get out there and see these trees now," he said. "All those senescent stands will be harvested within the next ten years. Even age rotations are what those timberlands need. Good forest management will take care of that."

The message was clear: in these American woods, there is no past, no poetry, only the bottom line; no ghost, no god in the tree nor angel in the air, but only the feathery schemes of experts who have the forest all figured out. When I graduated from the University of Maine in 1980, I had a B.S. in Forestry and they gave each graduate a white pine seedling, but still I had not found my tree.

Proverbs are the original field guides to life. In Russia it is said that from all old trees comes either an owl or a devil, and this wisdom holds true in North America as well. Local legends and vernacular histories abound with tales of strange goings-on connected with trees. Near High Point, New York, for instance, there is the story of Rowland Bell, a barefooted fiddle player who lived in a log cabin and had quite a reputation as a healer. He would cut a lock of his patient's hair and place it in the hole of an aged chestnut tree that grew along the road nearby. The tree would then shake and tremble like an aspen and the patient would be cured, the malady having been shifted to the tree. But that was a hundred years ago; chestnut blight has long since killed that tree, and today managed health care tries to keep most people out of the woods.

On the campus of a small college in the northeast there is an ancient oak known as the "Chewing-gum Tree." Its trunk, from the base to as high as you can reach, is sheathed in a thick layer of hardened gum wads, the residuum of several decades of ruminating students who disposed of their spent quids by sticking them to the tree. The word around campus is that if you walk by this oak at midnight you can hear a faint murmuring or buzzing coming from it, said to be the voices of all those gum-chewing students from the past, still discussing long-forgotten exams or the joys and sorrows of youthful love. Some students believe that if you ask this oak a question about your future, it will tell you. Privately the administrators at the college regard the tree as an eyesore and even a health hazard (all those generations of germs!), but they fear removing it because it is supposed to have been planted by the college founder; to cut it down would be seen—at least in the eyes of alumni benefactors—as tantamount to cutting down the family tree.

The old shamans who lived in the thickly wooded Pacific Northwest had a strong spiritual connection with trees, much like the druids had with the oak in Europe. Through an assortment of rituals and charms, the shaman used his or her tree as a spiritual helper to ascend into the sky and consult with various cosmic beings in order to gain news of the other world. Among the Salish people, one of the most powerful spiritual helpers was known as "Biggest Tree," and it was reported to aid the shaman in obtaining special gifts made from cedar. These little gifts were in fact "alive" for those who had the power to perceive and use them.

A similarly magical worldview lies at the very roots of the Great Western Tradition. In ancient Athens there was a religious sect known as the theoretikoi, who resorted to thick forests and quiet groves in order to conduct their meditative practices. When discussing the psyche, Aristotle often uses the term theoria, the root of our word "theory." Roughly translated it means "contemplation," but it can also mean "sending ambassadors to an oracle." Perhaps this was the Greek way of seeking "Biggest Tree." After all, the most famous of their oracles was the one at Dodona, which originally consisted of an immense old oak with a spring gushing from its base. Through the rustling of its leaves and the remarkable doves that alighted in its boughs, Zeus announced his supreme will to human beings. That old oak stood and delivered its sacred messages to many centuries of eager querents, until a robber came along and cut it down. When the tree fell, the oracle fell silent forever.

Once upon a time in Japan, there was an old willow growing beside a stream. Nearby was a temple. On the other side of the stream was a village. One day the villagers felt they needed to build a bridge, so they decided the tree should be cut down and used to supply timber. One young man among them, however, loved and respected the willow. He alone remembered that the temple had been built in the first place by their ancestors to honor that very tree. He offered other trees from his own land to the bridge builders if they would spare the willow. They agreed, and so it was saved from the axe.

Shortly after that, the young man encountered a beautiful young woman sitting under the willow. They agreed to marry, but she told him he could never ask where she was from nor who her parents were. The two lived happily together for many years. The man grew very old and frail, but his wife remained young and beautiful.

Then one day the Emperor decided a new temple should be built. The village offered the willow to supply the lumber, believing that this would bring them good fortune. On the morning the tree was being felled, the man who had once saved the willow was awakened by his wife. "I am the spirit of the willow," she said. "Because you saved me once, I married you to make you happy, but now I must leave you forever. The willow is about to die, and so must I, for we are one and the same. I go now to the willow." And with that, she went away.

The world's largest American elm stands in Louisville, Kansas—or so it did until March of 1997, when "an angry youth," according to the Manhattan Mercury newspaper, tossed a firebomb into a hollow of its massive trunk. Residents of Louisville, Kansas, were strongly attached to their elm and are deeply grieved over its loss. "This random act of violence," wrote one commentator, "not only ruins a lovely, highly prized tree, it ruins a champion from a species that is seen all too rarely these days. An outbreak of Dutch elm disease in the 1960s wiped out a large portion of our nation's elms, especially in cities, where elm-lined streets became barren."

In America, we love our trees and keep track of the biggest in each of the species. I have visited a few of them myself. Even though none of them turned out to be my tree, they do belong to somebody. In Louisville, Kansas, there is talk about placing a memorial shelter and plaque at the site of the immolated elm. That all trees felled by human hands should receive such homage!

Earlier in this century, Aldo Leopold wrote that conservation is "a matter of what a man thinks about while chopping, or while deciding what to chop. A conservationist is one who is humbly aware that with each stroke he is writing his signature on the face of the land. Signatures of course differ, whether written with axe or pen, and this is as it should be." Signatures, I suspect, are written with a far wider variety of instruments than merely axe or pen. It would be worthwhile to talk with that "angry youth" and find out on whose behalf he was acting. Was it his tree?

At the center of Nordic mythology was the World Tree, called Yggdrasil. It was described as an immense ash rooted in Hell but the boughs of which supported Heaven. In between lay the Earth. The trunk of the World Tree was an axis that linked human beings to those who dwell above as well as to those below. There was a prophecy that, at the end of the world, Yggdrasil would provide shelter to the last man and woman, and from them would sprout a new lineage. The Old Norse word Yggr, which is related to the English word "ogre," is another name for the god Odin, supreme deity and creator of the cosmos. To hang a man on the gallows was to string a sacrifice on Yggr's tree; after death he became a member of Odin's band, riding the storms with him.

To "baffle" a person once meant to subject him to public disgrace or infamy by hanging him upside down from a tree, a horrifying reversal of everything that person stood for. A public hanging, or any form of execution, is a ritual moment of suspense, requiring witness: what hangs in the balance is a question of transformation. The gallows is but one tree hung between two others. Our coffins are made of trees.

Indeed, death traditionally has been portrayed as a forester. He was called holz-meier, or "wood-mower," by the sixteenth century German writer Kaiserberg. In a book entitled De arbore humana, he writes: "So is Death called the village-mower or wood-mower, and justly hath he the name, for he hath in him the properties of a wood-cutter, the first of which is communitas, he being possessed in common by all such as be in the village, and being able to serve them all alike. So is the wood-cutter common to all the trees, he overlooketh no tree, but heweth them all down." Along the Columbia River, the Indians' custom was to place the bodies of the dead in boxes and sling them by cedar-bark cords from the branches of trees; eventually the cords would give way, and the bones would be strewn upon the ground like fallen leaves.

A logger in Oregon once appeared on network news. A reporter had come out to the woods to interview him at work. He took time out from his labors to answer the reporter's questions. The logger was very polite. He wore a hard hat. He resented environmentalists because they all lived in the city and said they loved the forest but knew nothing about it. "How can you love what you don't know?" For his part, the logger was intimate with the forest, having cut down a good bit of it. He did not live in the city. He knew what he loved and stood by it. Behind him stretched a vast swath of open land; stumps and slash indicated a recently removed forest.

The reporter could not resist a certain irony. She pointed to the clear-cut. "How is this love?"

Not a fair question to be asked on national television, but as that man now looked out in hopeless confusion upon the field of his endeavors, the inexplicable terrain of his love, he was desperately looking for something. Maybe his tree.

"I do love the forest," he said at last. "This doesn't look good, I know—but my family....I'm sorry that what we have to do is so ugly."

The words of another spiritual forester come to mind. "Too late I learned to love Thee," writes St. Augustine in his Confessions, "O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new! Too late I learned to love Thee! And behold, Thou wert within and I abroad, and there I searched for Thee; deformed I, plunging amid those fair forms which Thou hadst made. Thou wert with me, but I was not with Thee." Now here's a fellow who found "Biggest Tree."

To find your own tree, a transition needs to be made. But of what kind? In psychoanalytic theory, a "transitional object" refers to something used by a child as a kind of emotional comforter. Typically it is a piece of cloth or a doll or a teddy bear. In their theory, psychoanalysts regard the transitional object as a psychological bridge that enables the child to cross from "primitive narcissism" to a more mature emotional attachment to human beings, which are the only appropriate hooks on which to hang our love, or so they say. Thus in a small child, a deep and powerful attachment to a teddy bear, or a tree, is considered normal, but in an adult such fondness for the nonhuman is a sure sign of neurosis, or worse.

Nevertheless, there seems to be something a little off about this way of describing how the innumerable relations out there compose our respective worlds. The wrong theory is a major handicap to finding your tree. Pigeons alighting in the boughs at Dodona, murrelets in a redwood tree—things my forestry professors never spoke of. A lady once complained to the great American artist James McNeill Whistler that she did not see the world he painted. "No, ma'am," he replied. "But don't you wish you could?"

Earlier I mentioned that there were two trees in the Garden of Eden, and that Adam and Eve found and tasted but one of them, the Tree of Knowledge. The other tree, the tree they never attained, was in fact the biggest tree in the Garden, the one that God guarded most jealously. It was the Tree of Life. "And the Lord God said, Behold the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the Tree of Life, and eat, and live forever...." And so Adam and Eve were driven away, into endless generations of longing. What the Bible fails to report, but is well attested by legends surrounding the story, is that for the rest of their lives, Adam and Eve kept trying to find their way back, not for the Garden itself nor for any home they wished to reclaim, but for the Tree they never found.

After I spent most of my growing-up years daydreaming of trees far north and west of New Jersey, a perverse law of compensation would have it that, as I stand on the threshold of middle age, living in the dark woods of Idaho, much of my dreamlife should now be spent back in the Garden State. The other night, for instance, I dreamed of that hickory tree in our old backyard. It's been twenty years since last I saw it, yet there it was again in all its flaring, turning glory. This time, instead of remaining in the house, I rushed out into the yard in order to throw my arms around its trunk and claim my tree as it shed its golden treasure of leaves upon me and the leaf-gold lawn.

But I woke up before I got there.


John P. O'Grady, whose previous articles in the Quest include "Looking for the Dutchman's Treasure" (See March-April 1999 > Looking for the Dutchman's Treasure) and "Translating the World," is still looking for his tree in Idaho, where he teaches a wide variety of literature classes at Boise State University. 


Viewpoint: Trees Around Us and Within Us

 

By John Algeo

Archetypes are persistently re-created. One of the most enduring of archetypes is that of the tree. Why human beings should resonate so strongly to the image of a tree is mysterious. Evolutionary biologists might propose that it is because, in our phylogenetic past, we were tree-dwellers and so have a hankering for our arboreal first homes. Fundamental literalists might suppose that it is because we have inherited, along with original sin from the eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, an unsated desire for the fruit of the Tree of Life.

Apart from any explanation why, the fact is that we are attracted to the image of the tree. Consider a few of them. The Edenic Trees of Knowledge and of Life had offshoots in the Kabbalistic tree of Life and in the Tree of the Cross on which Christ was crucified, which Medieval legends held to be made from wood of the Tree of Life. The Buddha reached enlightenment by sitting under the Bo Tree of Wisdom. Odin became the god of wisdom by hanging on a tree, perhaps Yggdrasil, the world ash tree that unites heaven, earth, and hell. The druids, Celtic wizards whose name means "tree," worked their magic in oak groves. The Bhagavad Gita has a tree that grows upside down, with its roots in heaven and its branches in the world. In Tibet a marvelous kumbum tree grows with mystical symbols from the mystery language Senzar on its leaves and bark.

In addition to mythological ones, there are other trees throughout our culture, our bodies, and our environment. We have family trees as diagrams relating us and our kinfolk. Philologists construct language trees to show how tongues like Latin, Sanskrit, and English are related historically. Logicians, electrical engineers, and computer scientists all draw trees to depict connections. Our vascular and nerve systems are treelike in their forms, and so are river systems. Although the gallows tree is no longer a familiar sight, it echoes in our racial memory. There is something fundamental and ultimate about trees and tree shapes.

And, of course, there are also Christmas trees. Today we are likely to imagine that Christmas trees have always been associated with the holiday as part of the "Old English" celebration of the Yuletide. But in fact, they are relatively recent in America and even more so in England. The Christmas tree developed in Germany as a blend of pagan and Christian symbols and was brought to America in the seventeenth century by German settlers. The Christmas tree did not become common in England until two hundred years later, when it was introduced there by Queen Victoria's German husband, Prince Albert.

This Christmas-season issue of the Quest has appropriately two articles about trees. In "The Tree in the Hoop," Chris Hoffman compares the universal symbol of the tree with that of the hoop or circle as complementary expressions of wholeness. In "A Tree Out There," John P. O'Grady explores the intensely personal aspect of the mythological tree: we each have a special tree somewhere, and we have to find it.

At this time of year, most homes have a Christmas tree in them. Trees are all around us. Trees are inside us, in our bodies and in our minds. We ourselves are the tree of Christ, re-created, not just annually, but from moment to moment, perpetually.


Oz - Annotated

Preprint from Quest.

The Annotated Wizard of Oz: "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" by L. Frank Baum;Pictures by W. W. Denslow. Ed. with an Introduction and Notes by Michael PatrickHearn. Centennial ed. Preface by Martin Gardner. New York: Norton, 2000.Hardback, $39.95, cii + 396 pages + color plates.

This is, for the time being, the definitive edition of the Great AmericanFairy Tale, Frank Baum's Wizard of Oz. The text of the 1900 first edition is reprinted with its illustrations and a plethora of informative notes about the text, allusions, and analogs. The front matter includes a ninety-page"Introduction to The Annotated Wizard of Oz," which is the fullest and most detailed available biographical account of the book and its author. It even treats Baum's Theosophical and related interests (pp. xc-xciv), though it does not adequately recognize the importance that those interests had for Baum andThe Wizard. The volume is abundantly illustrated, in addition to Denslow's original drawings, with black and white and full-color photographs and reproductions. A fourteen-page bibliography covers Baum's work and important studies of Baum and Denslow. For all devoted Ozzians, this is The WonderfulWizard of Oz bible.


Oz - Dorothy Gage and Dorothy Gale

 

Dorothy Gage and Dorothy Gale
by Sally Roesch Wagner

Posted from the Baum Bugle 28.2 (Autumn 1984): 4-6, by courtesy of Fred M. Meyer, former Secretary of the International Wizard of Oz Club, Inc., and of the author, Sally Roesch Wagner, a leading scholar on Matilda Joslyn Gage, L. Frank Baum's mother-in-law. For a biographical sketch of the author, see the end of the article.

Theosophical Society - Maud Gage BaumL. Frank Baum loved his wife, Maud Gage Baum. It was as simple as that. The family delighted in recounting the story of their first meeting. Maud's roommate at Cornell, Josie Baum, was anxious that Maud meet her handsome cousin Frank. Maud was finally introduced to him by Josie's mother, Josephine, at a Christmas party given by Frank's sister, Harriet A. B. Neal, in 1881. As Frank and Maud's son later reported:

The following evening Frank found quite a few of his old friends gathered at Harriet's house. He crossed the room to greet his sister, sitting in a large armchair. Around her were gathered a group of young people in animated conversation. As he came up and greeted them, Aunt Josie took the arm of a young lady standing near by. Drawing her close, she said: "This is my nephew, Frank. Frank, I want you to know Maud Gage. I'm sure you will love her." He smiled down at the animated features of a girl with long dark brown hair, mischievous eyes, and slightly retrousse nose. "Consider yourself loved, Miss Gage," he said smiling. [Frank Joslyn Baum and Russell P. MacFall, To Please A Child (Chicago: Reilly & Lee, 1961), 43]

The courtship progressed rapidly and, in spite of objections from both families, the two were married the following November in a small, simple ceremony, held in Maud's mother's parlor.

Frank was a devoted family man. He was always "decidedly a homebody," his oldest son said, "and seldom went out alone——almost never at night" (letter from Frank Joslyn Baum to Russell P. MacFall, December 31, 1956). Frank was respectful of Maud, and took seriously his responsibilities as a husband. Writing about "A Happy Home," in his newspaper the Aberdeen Saturday Pioneer (February 15, 1890), Frank shared with his readers his own contribution to the household:

Few men realize sufficiently that it lies entirely in their hands to make their home life enjoyable or otherwise. In nine cases out of ten a happy home depends on the temperament of the "man of the house." A woman is usually so occupied with her household duties and the care of her children that she naturally becomes more or less nervous and irritable, and looks forward to the homecoming of her mate as the one excitement that shall relieve the monotony of her daily routine.

That sensitivity of the plight of the household certainly endeared Frank to Maud. It was difficult raising four active and mischievous boys by herself. And yet, when they jointly decided that Frank must take a job as a traveling salesman for a time, it was Frank, not Maud, who suffered more from the absence. He eagerly awaited her letters from home. Once when he did not receive one for a day or two, he telegraphed that he was coming right home. "Seems he wouldn't travel if he didn't hear," his mother-in-law commented, "a perfect baby" (letter from Matilda Joslyn Gage to Helen Leslie Gage, February 18, 1897, Matilda Jewell Gage Collection). But Frank was not ashamed of his strong need for Maud. He depended on her support, her advice, and her constancy, as demonstrated in a letter written in 1914, after thirty-two years of marriage:

My darling old Sweetheart, I got your sweet letter today . . . and it was just the letter I would have expected you to write. Aside from the fact that I reproached myself for making my dear wife share my bothers, I got such a heart-warming through that letter that the sweet cheering words will keep me happy for many days to come. Yes, sweetheart, nothing can dismay us while we have each other and while the old love, which has lasted and grown stronger during all these years, remains to comfort and encourage us. . . . Always your lover, Frank. [letter from L. Frank Baum to Maud Gage Baum, October 12, 1914, Laura Jane Musser Collection]

In his "Happy Home" article, he encouraged every husband to discuss business matters with his wife, promising "ten chances to one, she will give you more wholesome advice than any of your business friends." Business decisions were made jointly in the Baum household, and Frank's publishers, Reilly & Britton, came to expect letters from Frank to begin, "After a conference with Mrs. Baum . . . I have decided to . . . ." Maud was one of Frank's best critics, Reilly believed (letter from L. Frank Baum to Frank K. Reilly, November 27, 1915; letter from F. K. Reilly to L. F. Baum, March 20, 1915). Frank was sure of it. When his first children's book, Mother Goose in Prose, was published in 1897, Frank inscribed Maud's copy:

One critic I always fear and long to please. It is my Sweetheart. Shall I win her approval how vain would be the plaudits of the small remnant of humanity! I hope this book will succeed, for her sake, for we need the money success would bring. But aside from that sordid fact I care little what the world thinks of it. The vital question is: What does my sweetheart, my wife of fifteen years, think of it? [Robert A. Baum Jr. Collection]

Not all men take women this seriously, Frank realized, and in another editorial in the Saturday Pioneer (February 1, 1890), he encouraged all of them to do so, not only privately but publicly as well. "We have one more lesson in tolerance to learn," he wrote. "We must do away with sex prejudice and render equal distinction and reward to brains and ability, no matter whether found in man or woman."

Frank was adoring of his wife. He covered a wall of Ozcot, their home in Hollywood, with his favorite pictures of Maud taken throughout her life, and christened them his "yard of Maud." On the back of a picture of himself he had taken for her, he wrote, "To my own Sweet Love. The image of your baby. Tooken December 1899." And on the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in 1907, Frank sent out (without his wife's knowledge) an invitation with a remarkable, tongue-in-cheek record of their married life:

Quarrels: Just a few.

Wife in tears: Three times (cat died; bonnet spoiled; sore toe).

Husband swore: One thousand one hundred and eighty-seven times; at wife, 0.

Causes of jealousy: 0. (Remarkable in an age of manicured men and beauty doctor women.)

Broke, occasionally; bent, often.

Unhappy, 0.

Now Maud was a bit more restrained in her sentiments, yet similarly devoted. She reassured Frank after one of his frequent financial failures, "We will come [out] all right. Trouble comes to us all but when met bravely and together surely we can stand it. You have always been able to earn a living. For all time and through all things, Your sweetheart and wife" (Fragment of undated letter, Robert A. Baum Jr. Collection).

Frank's health, which had never been strong, took a serious turn for the worse in 1918 and, after a prolonged illness, he died on May 6, 1919. Maud was with him constantly to the end. She wrote one of her sisters about their final conversation:

He told me many times I was the only one he had ever loved. He hated to die, did not want to leave me, said he was never happy without me, but it was better he should go first, if it had to be, for I doubt if he could have got along without me. It is all so sad, and I am so forlorn and alone. For nearly thirty-seven years we had been everything to each other, we were happy, and now I am alone, to face the world alone. [letter from Maud Gage Baum to Helen Leslie and Leslie Gage, May 16, 1919, Matilda Jewell Gage Collection]

Yes, it had been a deep and nourishing love for both, marred by only one major disappointment: the lack of a daughter. Frank, who had an affinity with all children, was a doting father to his sons. Yet he desired also a girl. However, it was Maud who, often feeling outnumbered by five males in the household and wishing to carry on the closeness she shared with her mother, sisters, and nieces, longed for a daughter even more than Frank did. Only her mother Matilda Joslyn Gage, the nationally known suffragist, provided Maud with regular female companionship.

Maud was Matilda's youngest, spunkiest, and favorite child. Mother and daughter were inseparable. They spent months in each other's homes when the Baums lived in Syracuse, only a dozen miles from Matilda's house in Fayetteville; and, when they moved to Aberdeen, South Dakota, in 1888, and then on to Chicago three years later, Matilda passed each winter with Frank, Maud, and the boys. Her company was especially important for Maud when Frank was on the road selling china for Pitkin & Brooks. Matilda's death in March 1898 left Maud lonely. For the first time in her life, she was without any immediate family close by and without the female companionship of a loved one. "It is just two months ago tonight that Mother left us," Maud lamented to her elder sister. "We have had a terrible electrical storm tonight, and I am very lonely. If I could only see Mother once, if she were only up in her room. Oh, Mother, I am so lonely without you. It does not seem as if I could have it so. She was so thoughtful of me, so worried when I fell ill. I feel as if I had lost all that especially care about me. Frank is good and kind, but he is different from Mother, and I want her so much" (letter from Maud Gage Baum to Helen Leslie Gage, May 18,1898, Matilda Jewell Gage Collection).

Perhaps there was one link, one connection, one hope. Matilda had been a serious student of the occult during the last decade of her life, and had come to believe (as did Maud) in reincarnation. Matilda explained to one of her grandchildren the year before her own death:

There is one thing I want you to remember first of all: This is that what is called "death" by people is not death. You are more alive than ever you were after what is called death. Death is only a journey, like going to another country. You are alive when you travel to Aberdeen just as much as when you stay in Edgeley [North Dakota], and it is the same with what is called death. After people have been gone for awhile, they come back and live in another body, in another family and have another name. [letter from Matilda Joslyn Gage to Harry Carpenter, January 21, 1897, Jocelyn Birch Burdick Collection]

And perhaps sometimes they come back to the same family. When Matilda died, her daughter-in-law, Sophie Jewell Gage, was expecting a child. It would be the last of the Gage line, born to Matilda's only son T. Clarkson Gage. More importantly, this child might be the spiritual connection with the late Matilda Joslyn Gage.

The baby was born in June and she was given a popular name of the time, one that even her Uncle Frank Baum had previously used in Mother Goose in Prose. Sophie had already lost one baby seven years before. Everyone was worried. The child held on for five months but, in November 1898, she died. Maud attended the funeral and was so distraught she had to have medical treatment. "Dorothy was a perfectly beautiful baby," Maud wrote her sister Helen (letter from Maud Gage Baum to Helen Leslie Gage, November 27, 1898, Matilda Jewell Gage Collection). "I could have taken her for my very own and loved her devotedly." Frank was then working on a children's story; and, when it came out in 1900, he dedicated it to "my good friend and comrade, My Wife." And in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Frank gave Maud her Dorothy.

[Author's note:]

This article was suggested to me during a 1975 taping session by Matilda Jewell Gage, L. Frank and Maud Baum's niece. Matilda was twelve when her sister Dorothy died. When I mentioned the story several years later, Matilda was more inclined to believe that her uncle had come upon the name Dorothy simply because it was a popular girl's name of the time. As Michael Patrick Hearn has pointed out, however, there is a clear pattern in Baum's work of using his wife's family's names. Dorothy's aunt and uncle may have been named for Maud's parents: Matilda, who occasionally signed her work "M" (Em), and Henry. Matilda Joslyn Gage's maiden name appears as the family name of The Master Key (1901); likewise "Joslyn" is the name of the little boy in "The Yellow Ryl" (1906), a short story published in A Child's Garden (August and September 1925), and appears again as a family name in Mary Louise in the Country (1916), here spelled "Jocelyn." Also, according to his 1905 contract with Reilly & Britton, Baum intended to publish a novel for young people ascribed either to "Maud Gage Baum" or to "Helen Leslie," the name of Maud's elder sister. -S.R.W.


Sally Roesch Wagner, a Biographical Sketch

One of the first women to receive a doctorate in this country for work in women's studies (UC Santa Cruz), Sally Roesch Wagner was a founder of one of the earliest college women's studies programs (CSU Sacramento). Having taught women's studies for twenty years, she now tours the country as a writer, lecturer, and historical performer, bringing to life Matilda Joslyn Gage and her better-known woman's rights ally, Elizabeth Cady Stanton. A scholar in residence for the Women's Rights National Historical Park in Seneca Falls, New York, during Celebrate 98, Wagner was curator of two exhibits, developed a curriculum, and performed as both Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Matilda Joslyn Gage. Dr. Wagner is the Director of the Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation in Fayetteville, New York.

Most recently Wagner appeared as a "talking head" in the Ken Burns PBS documentary, "Not for Ourselves Alone: The Story of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony," for which she wrote the accompanying faculty guide for PBS. She was also an historian in the PBS special "One Woman, One Vote" and has been interviewed several times on National Public Radio's "All Things Considered" and "Democracy Now." The Jeanette K. Watson Women's Studies Distinguished Visiting Professor in the Humanities at Syracuse University in Spring 1997 and currently adjunct faculty member in the women's studies program there, Wagner has been a consultant to the Publisher, the Writings of Mary Baker Eddy, and the National Women's History Project; she is a Research Affiliate of the Women's Resources and Research Center at the University of California, Davis.

The theme of Wagner's work has been telling the untold stories. The exhibit and her monograph of the same name, "She Who Holds the Sky: Matilda Joslyn Gage," reveal a suffragist who was written out of history because of her stand against the Religious Right of a hundred years ago, while her traveling exhibit and Women's Rights National Historical Park curriculum, "Sisters in Spirit," documents the influence of Iroquois women on early women's rights activists. Wagner keynoted the opening session of the 1998 National Women's Studies Association convention with a lecture on this topic. She also briefed the First Lady, the White House Millennium Council, and the press during Hillary Rodham Clinton's historic sites tour.

Her recent essays have appeared in The Encyclopedia of Women and World Religion; Women Public Speakers in the United States, 1800-1925; Indian Roots of American Democracy; Iroquois Women: An Anthology; and Handbook of American Women's History. She has published articles in the National Women's Studies Association Journal, On the Issues, Northeast Indian Quarterly, Indian Country Today, Hartford Courant, Women's History Network News, National NOW Times, and Sacramento Bee.

Her recent books include She Who Holds the Sky: Matilda Joslyn Gage; a Modern Reader's Edition of Matilda Joslyn Gage's 1893 classic, Woman, Church and State; Daughters of Dakota (six-volume series); The Untold Story of the Iroquois Influence on Early Feminists; A Time of Protest: Suffragists Challenge the Republic, 1870-1887, and Celebrating Your Cultural Heritage by Telling the Untold Stories.

Sally Roesch Wagner is director of the Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation
P. O. Box 192
Fayetteville, NY 13066
Swagner711@aol.com


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