A temporary public art activation to hold space for forgiveness and connection.
First installed on a pear tree outside a food coop, Philadelphia 2024.
Visitors to the installation are invited to write a note seeking or granting forgiveness on a square of fabric, and hang it on the tree. This intimate act of writing a heartfelt note to a loved one, the celebratory feeling of decorating a tree with flags that wave in the wind, and the communal gesture of allowing the note to be read by others, offer a way to feel our inalienable connection with ourselves, our loved ones, our community, and the natural world of which we are a part.
It is a space for reflection and healing, for laughter and release, for tears and tenderness,
for boldness and bravery, for generosity and love.
Here is an instruction manual for those who would like to create a Tree of Forgiveness in their community.
This is the short story that inspired this project:
A story of a man and a boy who share a seat and a lonely vigil on a train ride to Smithville, from Robert Dewey, The Language of Faith.
The man first notices the boy when the train gives a great lurch. Coming down the aisle, the man finds himself flung into the unoccupied aisle seat next to the boy, who turns quickly. Surprise cannot hide the anxiety on his face. How old is the boy, the man asks himself? Seventeen, maybe eighteen?
What could worry someone so young?
The look the man had seen on the boy's face is not easy to explain. Is it shame? Or guilt? Or fear? Whatever it is, the boy's tension is obvious.
He pays no attention to any passerby; he makes no reply to the man selling sandwiches and drinks. Is he looking for something out there? But there is nothing to see. The man checks by peering out the window. Not even an occasional light breaks the darkness.
The man tries to forget the boy by opening a magazine, but looks up in time to see the boy's head
drop dejectedly against the window. The hand on the window ledge is clenched into a fist. The man feels sure the boy is fighting to keep from crying.
The man begins to read. The boy sits, but every now and then he steals a look at the man instead of peering out the window quite so intently. Finally the boy asks the man if he knows what time it is and when the train will get into Smithville.
The man gives him the time, but says he doesn't know about Smithville.
"That where you're headed?" he asks the boy.
"Yes," replies the boy.
"Very small town isn't it? I didn't realize the train stopped there."
"It doesn't usually, but they said they'd stop for me."
"You live there, do you?"
"Yes, That is, I used to."
"Going back, then, eh?"
"Yes, That is, I think so, maybe."
Somehow the question turns the boy back to the window. It is quite a while before he speaks again. When he does, it is to tell the story of his life.
Four years ago, he had done something so wrong he'd run away from home. He couldn't face his father, so he had left without seeing anyone.
Since then he had worked here and there, but never for long in one place.
He had learned about the pain of life. He'd often been without money, sometimes pretty sick, usually very lonely, and, once in a while, close to real trouble. Finally he had decided to go home to his father's house.
For a while, that is all the boy tells. The man doesn't press him with questions. But finally he asks just one.
"Your father know you're coming?"
"Yes," replies the boy.
"Then he'll be there to meet you, I imagine."
"Maybe. I don't know."
Silence again. And a long look out the window. Then the rest of the story.
"I sent him a letter. I didn't know if he wanted me back. After what I did, I wasn't sure he could forgive me. He has never known where I was, and I've never written to him, except for the letter three days ago when I said I'd be coming home. But I know how much I hurt him. It must have hurt!
So, in this letter I said I'd come home if he wanted me to. There's a tree right by the little station in Smithville, a few hundred feet this side of it. We used to climb that tree all the time, my older brother and me. In the letter, I told my Dad to put a sign on the tree if he wanted me to get off the train and come home. I told him I'd look for a white rag on one of the branches that hangs over the fence where the train passes. If there's a rag on the tree, I'll get off; if there isn't, I'll just ride on somewhere, I don't know where."
The train rushes on through the night, and once again, the conversation wanes. A kind of silent companionship had developed between the man and the boy. Both now wait for Smithville.
Suddenly the boy turns from the window and speaks with such intensity that it takes the man by surprise.
"Will you look for me? I'm sort of scared. All of a sudden I don't know what to expect.."
"Sure. I'll be glad to."
They change seats. Shortly after the man had begun to peer into the darkness, the conductor comes through announcing, "Smithville, next stop!"
The boy makes no move, says nothing. He merely drops his head into his hands, waiting.
The man peers into the darkness. Then he sees it. He shouts so loud everyone in the car can hear him.
"Son, that tree is covered with rags!"