What lends The Giving Tree its remarkable poignancy is not the tree’s love, but the story’s canvas — the passing of time. In ten minutes, we witness the boy’s journey from childhood through old age, with all the loss and longing that accompanies life.
The book opens with scenes of childhood happiness. The boy plays with the tree every day: running, climbing, swinging, pretending. They are happy.
This is a verdant picture of wholeness: shalom.
But every good story thrives on conflict, and that is exactly what we encounter when we turn the page.
« But time went by. » With only a hint of the boyhood smile remaining on his face, the boy nostalgically remembers his happy childhood days with the tree.
As he continues to age, the boy no longer plays with the tree. Three times the tree entreats the boy to come and play « and be happy » — hearkening back to their lost childhood days — but the boy is « too big, » or « too busy, » or « too old and sad. »
Time has taken the boy’s childhood joy, and he can never go back to find it once more.
With loss comes longing.
This evokes not simply the loss of childhood happiness, but a primordial sense of everything time takes from us: youth, innocence, illusions, hopes, dreams, love. Conceptuellement, c’est le paradis perdu : l’exil de l’Eden, le lieu lointain du shalom où nous pouvons trouver la plénitude » et être heureux » au sens plein du terme, si seulement nous pouvions y retourner.
Avec la perte vient la nostalgie. Le garçon, bien qu’il ait abandonné l’arbre pour ses biens et sa famille, y revient toujours. Car en ce lieu, le souvenir de la plénitude persiste, gravé à jamais dans le pied de l’arbre.