All of us live and flourish only because we are the beneficiaries of unconditional and unmerited generosity, natural and human. Beginning even before we are born, we live necessarily as consumers of the substance of others—of their bodies and labors, their time and energy, their attention and care, their love. We live using up not only the renewable resources—like leaves and apples—but also the irreplaceable essence—branches and trunk—of others, especially of our parents, and most especially of our mothers.
The giving tree, identified as female, is an image of mother love. She loves the boy selflessly and unconditionally, because he is her own. Because she loves him, which is to say, because she desires his happiness above all else, she gives to him without condition and without measure. Blessed is the mother who is able to help her child, at whatever age. This truth about parental happiness is surely known by any loving parent who has been compelled to watch impotently while his child is suffering.
But here speaks only calculation, not mother love. For her child is, in a sense, the mother-at-work: She lives in her children and in their flourishing. Those who are always husbanding their resources or their being for some future occasion do not live, and hence cannot live happily. Although in no way grand, these are decent enough desires, in no way reprehensible. Yet the boy is not himself a giver, nor is there anything in the ever-indulgent conduct of his unconditionally loving mother that would encourage or induce him to imitate her generosity.
To give without qualification is defective not because it gains nothing in return for the giver but because it may be harmful to the recipient. Mother love is, by its very nature, prone to prodigality and foolishness: loving their own without qualification, mothers often love not wisely but too well. Could reading the story of mother love to a child supply what mother love lacks? Perhaps a precocious child, identifying with the boy, will come to see how much he owes to his mother.
Admiration for her selfless love and extraordinary generosity—undemanding and unrequited—might in a noble nature induce gratitude or, at least, prompt shame for ingratitude. I doubt it. The overt lesson of the story from the point of view of the boy is that the tree always has more to give, not that one should become a giver oneself.
Besides, the poignancy of the story depends on self-conscious awareness of the life cycle—of puberty, leaving home, disappointment, and decline. It is a rare young child who senses what life has in store for him, or that he might someday be in the place of his mother or father, with a child of his own to love and rear.
This is not a story likely to teach virtue or gratitude to a child when young. Yet I would urge parents, especially today, to read this story to their children because of what it can do for us, the parents.
If we were lucky, we had mothers who were always there, always generous, always loving: whatever trust we acquired regarding our own worthiness and the possible goodness of the world we learned-indirectly—from her generous love.
Now, with children of our own to care for, we need spiritually to return to our source, which we are now able to see truly for the first time. Reading The Giving Tree to our children can thus inspire gratitude in us as parents and can encourage us to repay our debts to our own mothers and fathers in the only way we can—by gladly spending our substance in the loving care of our own children.
There may also be a small direct benefit to our children. For, God willing, children to whom The Giving Tree is read when they are young may eventually come to understand its meaning—and the meaning of having parents who read it to them—when they can-with rich memories—read it in turn to their own children. Leon R. Ever since Eden, some of us have been phobic about apple trees.
Having initially eaten of the wrong fruit, we will now not eat of any; we fear take two on the Fall, so we deny the neediness that would make us consumers. We may even fault the giving trees of this world: they are too indulgent of others and too sacrificial of themselves. No self-respecting bough should let herself be sawed off, and no other regarding boy should take without remorse. This is a mistake, however.
We are no longer in the Garden, and this time it is abstinence that means death. We are evidently supposed to fell and fashion trees; Jesus was a carpenter, after all. The voice of the serpent now praises prudent self-reliance, as though love does not expend itself unconditionally. George Orwell knew better. But the high compliment I can pay his story is that it makes me want to have readable children.
The Giving Tree is a wonderful tale not only because it schools the young in the virtue of generosity but also because it encourages the old to be hopeful about the young—in spite of, even because of, their dependency.
The primary lesson is that it is good to need each other. It will be objected that the tree is masochistic and the boy ungrateful, yet early on we are told that the tree loves the boy and the boy loves the tree. The boy is rather self-absorbed, and I have no stake in defending him in detail. But I would not be too hard on him, either. Is not impatience the way of youth, and beyond? As the boy grows older, he visits the tree less often and his wants and needs change, but the latter are never merely destructive or unreasonable.
Who has never asked his parents for material goods? It is the tree, in any event, with whom we should principally identify. Nevertheless, he does mature. The evolving list of his desires includes: money, a house, a wife, children, a boat, and finally a quiet place to sit and rest. These are all intelligible, even predictable, and no pure taker would marry and build in the ways suggested.
Is this a sad tale? Well, it is sad in the same way that life is sad. We are all needy, and, if we are lucky and any good, we grow old using others and getting used up. Tears fall in our lives like leaves from a tree. Our finitude is not something to be regretted or despised, however; it is what makes giving and receiving possible.
The more you blame the boy, the more you have to fault human existence. The more you blame the tree, the more you have to fault the very idea of parenting.
If it were, if fathers and mothers waited on reciprocity before caring for their young, then we would all be doomed. The tree is gladly crucified on the cross of itself. With God we have to take the active, conscious step of asking for help; the boy asks primarily for things, but he too must voice his vulnerability in order to be cared for.
For all its gifting of itself, however, the tree is not untouched; it also receives from the boy. Love bears all things and it never ends, even if life does. We must think the tree happy, not like the absurd Sisyphus but like the Suffering Servant. It has nothing left. He never really grows up.
He thinks there should always be someone to satisfy his wants anytime he wants anything. I am pleased, therefore, to report that she is a chip off the old maternal block, or a branch off the stem as the case may be. In other words, I do not aspire to stumpdom.
Why not? Am I, then, ungiving? I would hate to think so. Oh yes, we are told that the boy loves the tree and the tree loves the boy. The tree and the boy are happy, poised in a kind of eternal equilibrium or the tree, presumably, would have it so , a world in which nothing ever happens or changes. But change will come. The boy grows older. It is alone. The tree is happy—another perfect fantasy for the apple-taker who can meet his needs without ever incurring opposition, argument, friction of any kind.
On and on it goes. The boy wants a house. Take my branches. The tree, although denuded in a rather major way, is happy. The boy, of course, stays away for a long time. I dare say he never writes. But the tree stands firm. She is beside herself when the boy returns. The man is old and sad. Take my trunk, sail away, be happy. The moment we become aware that we are separate beings from our parents, we begin to experience conflicting desires. We long to escape our parents as well as never leave their side.
We revel in the comfort they provide us, but also fear their power. We worry about what might happen should we become independent, yet we struggle to gain freedom. When a child loses her parents, the perils of dependence, as seen in The Giving Tree , are gone and she becomes an individual. In most children's literature this works out for the kid, who tends to be rewarded for their moxie with love and riches. This is probably a good moment to say that I love The Giving Tree. It was the first book I read or memorized, depending on who you ask.
But at age 4, I didn't think about the selflessness of the caregiver. Rather, I was enthralled by the intense power that connections have to shape who we are and what we will become. Over the years I came to see the book less and less as an endorsement of giving, and more about the way love and tragedy are irrevocably intertwined, and how our giving to others inevitably detracts from how much we can give ourselves.
My son is way too young to understand any of this, but one day I hope he sees the capacity for beauty and danger in the act of giving. She tells him she is sad because she cannot provide him shade, apples, or any materials like in the past. He ignores this and states that all he wants is "a quiet place to sit and rest," which the tree, who is weak being just a stump, could provide. With this final stage of giving, "the Tree was happy". Fusion - The Tree fuses to the thought that it can only be happy when The Boy was around or when she doing something for The Boy.
It even becomes literally fused to when intitials are carved into The Tree. Experiential Avoidance - The Tree will do anything she can to avoid making The Boy feel like he can't do anything, because that would make her sad. I like to think that "M. I'm probably totally wrong. Kelli Proud Mommy to Lukey 4. Posts 1, I didn't like it because it makes me sad, too. But I always thought it was an allegory for mankind and mother nature. We take and take and take until we ruin Gaia - Mother Earth.
Or did I read too much into it? Posts How funny- I just purchased myself a copy last week at a used bookstore. I absolutely love it and wanted it in my collection. I discovered it as an adult, so my perspective of the story may differ if I had read it when I was a child. If you would like a story with a similar feel, but a definite lesson not as open to interpretation , then I highly recommend the following: "The Lorax" by Dr.
I adore these as well along with Roald Dahl. BTW, the above stories all made me weep no baby blues here, though , but I never viewed that as a "bad" thing. On the contrary, they impacted me in such a way that it caused an emotional reaction. Interesting to note that many dislike the story good to know, I guess, since I always want to give the book as a gift- maybe I'll reconsider. I think its VERY creepy!
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