Before a Christmas tree in Manhattan gets called a Christmas tree, it’s known by its maiden name: spruce, fir, pine.
In the wild, with its trunk rooted firmly in dirt, it decorates an animal living room but stands the test of time.
There are no wilderness rules of etiquette about the proper date to take it down.
And no one complains about the evergreen mess it makes on the ground.
(No bear is out there muttering things like, “We’ll be finding pine needles for at least a year after trashing this bad boy.”)
When the time comes for a tree to get chopped, piled into a truck and driven into the city,
There are still no laws that mark it as a mandatory Christmas tree.
It’s like moving somewhere new for the very first time: in front of the tree stands (perhaps taller than it once did) the possibility to be anything.
Maybe it will become part of the ensemble in a Broadway play.
Maybe it will get cast as an extra in a movie.
Maybe it will meet the big kahuna, the grandiose Rockefeller Plaza tree.
Maybe it will witness a shooting star or early snowfall.
Maybe it will greet diners in a cozy restaurant uptown.
Maybe it will go home with a loving family, maybe it won’t get selected at all.
But for trees, not getting chosen isn’t like getting picked last for softball.
Because what it’s already gotten is an adventure.
The chance to explore.
The chance to travel.
The opportunity to be part of a new kind of outdoors–
One that craves such greenery on its streets to lift spirits, oxygen levels and the corners of smiles.
Before a tree gets called a Christmas tree, it becomes a neighbor.
Get even more in the spirit: MR’s Guide to the Best Holiday Movies