Forest Gratitude Spot Creates Community

 “Ceremony focuses attention so that attention becomes intention,” writes Robin Wall Kimmerer in Braiding Sweetgrass. “Ceremonies transcend the boundaries of the individual and resonate beyond the human realm.” (p. 249)  Kimmerer goes on to say that no doubt there were ceremonies for the land that existed in the countries that the settlers came from but they seem to have become lost and now our ceremonies are all for humans, such as birthdays, anniversaries and graduations.  She encourages us to create new ceremonies to honour the land and reclaim this part of ourselves.

Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer
Indigenous Botanist, University Professor and Author

Inspired by Kimmerer’s words, I wondered what a ceremony could look like for the forest that has been a sanctuary for me during the pandemic.  There are many people  that we see over and over again as we walk the forest trails.  I know many of them only by their dogs or children.  I imagine that they may feel the same way that I do.

A question came to me.  How could we share our gratitude to the forest while being socially distanced?  What might that look like?  The idea of a “Forest Gratitude Spot” came to me.  My partner built a little wooden box with a hinged door to hang on a tree.  I put a small notebook inside with a pencil and invited people to share their gratitude.  It is right beside the river so immediate hand washing is possible.

I wrote on the first two pages of the notebook:  “Over this past year the forest has been a sanctuary for many of us.  We have been free to walk among the trees and beside the river that keeps us healthy.  So, perhaps you would like to take a moment and feel grateful and share that here with all of us in this little notebook.  Gratitude is great for your health too!”

And then, to seed the gratitude, I wrote, “I am grateful for the peacefulness of this forest.  I can hear the Grouse drumming and the Ravens groaking high above.  I forget all my troubles when I am here.”

Then we hung the box on the broken limb of a Grandmother Eastern White Cedar on the bank of the Sturgeon River and waited.

The next day, to my delight, someone had left a message.  It read, “Grateful for the lovely weather, the fish in the river, the sounds of the forest, my beautiful company and a couple of hounds, Louie and Kiba.”

The following day it was rainy but there was another message: “Grateful for the quiet and peaceful water.  We are grateful for our amazing friends and the wonderful memories we make here.”

Below this, I added “So grateful to see the Trilliums and Trout Lilies return again.”

The following words were shared in the little book over the next two days:

"Grateful to live so close to such a beautiful spot.  Grateful to be able to bring my dogs to the river for an off leash walk/swim.  Grateful for the person who showed me this special spot and for the memories it has held and has yet to bring. (Heart)

"It's a beautiful spot.  I love the sound of the river."

"Good trail.  Thumbs up."

I added.  "I am grateful for the strong roots that anchor the trees.  The forest anchors me as well."

So, that’s what has happened in the past five days.  I wonder if this qualifies as a community ceremony.  What actually happens when a person takes the time to be conscious about their gratitude for the forest?  We know from studies that that person will feel better and produce healthy hormones.  What happens when we witness someone else’s gratitude?  Mirror neuron science would suggest that it helps us to feel gratitude as well.  How does feeling grateful affect our actions?  Well, we tend to protect what we value so that could lead to political opinions and actions I suppose. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “To have agency in the world, ceremonies should be reciprocal co-creations, organic in nature, in which the community creates ceremony and the ceremony creates communities” (p. 250).  I like the idea that ceremony will create community.  I do feel connected to the other people who have written in the book.

 But what does the forest experience when we are grateful for it?  How does it experience this act of reciprocity?  To understand this requires a leap across a chasm for many non-Indigenous people.  Kimmerer writes, “…we act as if loving the land is an internal affair that has no energy outside the confines of our head and heart.” (p. 248)  But, what if loving the land did have an energy that moved outside of ourselves? “Ceremonies transcend the boundaries of the individual and resonate beyond the human realm.  These acts of reverence are powerfully pragmatic.  These are ceremonies that magnify life,” writes Kimmerer (p. 249).  Magnifying life during a pandemic seems like a good idea.

I see this opening of co-creative space as a social experiment, to see what will happen.  I also see it as an art form and I am putting out a call to kindred spirits to co-create a gratitude spot.  It is a ridiculously simple art form in a high tech world but perhaps the medium is the message.  The forest so generously brings us life and health and we simply need to send back that generosity of spirit, that gratitude and dare we say it, our deep collective love for the land.

On the second day of the Forest Gratitude Spot, we met a young couple on the trail.  They asked us how to get to the river.  We told them where to find a trail down to the Sturgeon River from where we currently were.  "But," I added, "the best place in back in the direction that you came from."  They told me where they had parked and I showed them by pointing that they had turned left when they should have turned right.  It is an easy mistake.  They thanked us and continued to the closest path that we showed them first and we continued on our way.  After ten minutes, we were at the crossroads where they had gone the wrong way at the beginning of their walk.  Knowing that they would have to come back to this point to get to their car, I drew the word "RIVER" in the dirt path and added an arrow --> pointing the way.  

The next day, I was at the place of my message in the dirt on my way to the river (and the Forest Gratitude Spot) when I noticed new words scratched into the earth, just below my scratched "RIVER" reading, "THANK YOU!".  I burst out laughing because I knew it was the young couple who had read my message and were grateful.  I was surprised because I had not expected to be thanked.  I was just being a mother-at-large.  It makes me wonder if Mother Earth belly laughs when we show our gratitude to her.  Maybe that laughter is the sudden rustle of the leaves or a burst of bird song or a meadow of flowers.  Maybe that is how it is once we've jumped the chasm.

Robin Wall Kimmerer (2013) Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions.

Anamcara Surrounds Us

 

Ancient wisdom and knowledge encoded in the Celtic script of Ogham has intrigued me for a while now.  Since the Celtic New Year of Nov. 1^st, I have been studying the Ogham trees for each month and I have shared some of that information here in this blog.  The trees are mnemonic devices for this knowledge and I have become aware of how this is bringing a new awareness to me when I am in the woods.

Recently, after a two month hiatus, I returned to the forest that has sustained me over the past year of the pandemic.  But humans are not the only ones that are suffering.  In February, the county logging crew cut down hundreds of Ash trees that have been damaged or killed by the Emerald Ash Borer.  The heart of the forest was blocked from visitors and the sounds of chainsaws and heavy machinery was hard to listen to, so we took a break from walking there until the logging was done.  Returning this week, we found the forest quiet once again and hundreds of Ash logs, stacked at the entrance, awaiting trucks, silently.

The soft spongy forest floor felt so good to my feet and legs.  We have been walking on a paved and gravel trail system during our forest hiatus.  But, now the earth in the forest seemed to rise to meet my footsteps.  Birch trees gleamed bright white in the sunshine and I thought, yes, Birch is the first tree of the Celtic year. “New beginnings,” it heralded as I looked around for spring tree buds. 

Pussywillows are everywhere with their silver-grey catkins shining in the sun. I stop to stroke them with my fingers and I rub them against my cheek like a cat.  I found two large cuttings that were lying at the base of one tree as if the tree were offering them to me or someone took so many that they easily forgot two lying on the ground.  I brought them home and put them into a jar of water.  Every spring, I root pussywillows this way as I renew my life long relationship with the willow, the tree of January.  The circle moves as I travel it and it is spring once again.  Willow, the Queen of the Water grows in the same places as Alder, King of the Water, in ditches and along the lakeshore.  The long male catkins of the Alders are everywhere as well.   I never knew what they were until this year when I learned about them in February.  And now they are everywhere I look, as plain as day, now that my eyes know what to look for.  Alder with its long male catkins and tiny female ones that are only now emerging at the tips of the branches right above the male ones that will fertilize them with pollen.  The renewal of life is just waiting there.  The balance between male and female is evident to my now knowing eyes.

Above, you can easily see the long male catkins on this Alder.  If you look carefully at the short branch at the top right corner of this photo,
you can see the small female catkins which will become cones after
fertilization.  They are in very close proximity to the male catkins to
make fertilization easily accomplished.  In the picture to the right, you can see how plentiful the catkins are.

While looking closely at one Alder, my eye moved upward, searching for female catkins when something large and white got my attention at the top of a nearby Poplar.  A huge white and brown bird was perched up high, turning only its regal head to direct its powerful eyesight in search of prey.  I later learned that it was an immature Red-Tailed Hawk.  Hawk, messenger from the ancestors, there, plain as day, once I looked up.  My Celtic ancestors believed that all of life had soul or anam and so spiritual guidance or anamcara  was all around us.  What was Hawk saying to me?  Pay attention, look carefully?

I came across a new Hawthorn as I walked.  This tree of April is setting buds.  Are they flowers or leaves?  It is too early to tell.  I will visit them repeatedly, waiting to be informed, to be shown.  I tie tiny bells with red wool onto each one I meet, to introduce myself.  Hawthorn’s medicine opens the heart.  Hawthorn’s protective thorns demand respect.  Hawthorn is a gateway into the imaginal realm.  I feel a close connection to this tree for some reason.  The Hawthorns where I live are small and often have a fungus that comes from the Juniper and turns the Hawthorn branches and leaves orange.  But things are not always what they seem, especially in the imaginal realm.  I put my thumb up against the tip of the thorns to feel its sharpness but I don’t draw blood.

Hawthorn thorns before the leaves and flowers emerge.

The tree for May will be Oak and I am already looking at these strong giants that grow in the park beside our home.  I watch them, waiting for their knowledge to be shared.

Our world of consumerism has taken a hit this past year.  Shopping is now somewhat dangerous instead of relaxing.  Only necessities are purchased.  This creates space for walking through the trees, space for imagination, space for learning, space for anam that is shared as anamcara.  My ancestors understood this.  It is in my bones, somewhere, waiting to live again.  Hawk shows me – pay attention!  The insanity diminishes in the forest and the trees speak and instruct as the land rises up to support my journey. 

It feels as though we have crossed some kind of threshold and are in a new world, well, some of us.  Some are waiting for the old to return but I fear they will be disappointed.  There is a kind of freedom in this newness, a freedom to embrace what is and has always been around us and to listen and pay attention.  Trees have been here much longer than humans.  They are our elders and our ancestors and they have wisdom to impart.  We just need to listen.

Heart Healing Hawthorn

 

The ancient Celts created the first alphabet in Europe which is called the Ogham script.  Each letter is associated with a tree or an important plant.  The alphabet was used as a mnemonic device to encode knowledge, the Celtic song of the universe, Ceolta na Cruinne (Diana Beresford-Kroeger).  The thirteen months of the year (pre-Gregorian calendar) were each represented by a particular tree.  The new year began on Nov. 1^st with Birch, followed by Rowan in December, Alder in January, Willow in February and Ash in March.  The tree associated with April is Hawthorn

“The ancient Celts understood the hawthorn as a purveyor of power,” writes Diana Beresford-Kroeger (p. 225).  Although it is a small tree (5 – 14 m) that prefers the full sun of open spaces instead of the forest, Hawthorn’s ability to provide protection, medicine and a connection to the Otherworld made it a sacred tree.

Hawthorn is a member of the Rosaceae or Rose family. Therefore it’s flowers have five petals which can be white or pink depending on the species of which there are a thousand worldwide. The plant is hermaphrodite so it can pollinate itself or other trees.  The fruit that develops is a red haw which looks like a berry even though it is a pome (like an apple).  The haws of some species have one seed while others have two to three.   The branches are quite dense, twisted and armed with sharp thorns that can be 1-3 cm in length.  The simple leaves which open at the same time as the flowers, contain a growth hormone for caterpillars which therefore increases the number of butterflies available for pollinating future blossoms.  The young leaves are edible and can be added to salads or nibbled on while hiking.  Hawthorn does not have a large root system.

You can see the thorns on this Hawthorn in March along a trail in southern Ontario

Hawthorn provides a medicine that acts as a vasodilator, specifically on the left coronary artery that supplies blood to the heart muscle.  The extract from Hawthorn is used to treat “hypertension associated with myocardial weakness, arteriosclerosis, tachycardia and angina pectoris” (Beresford-Kroeger, p. 227).  The haws are used to make jellies, juices, wine, and other drinks.

The dense branches and thorns led to Hawthorn being used for hedgerows for thousands of years in Britain and from whence comes the name “haegthorn” in Anglo-Saxon.  It is also called Whitethorn as its grey bark is contrasted with the black bark of Blackthorn, Maytree, Quickthorn, Thornapple, Hagthorn, ske (Old Irish), awes, asogs, boojuns and arzygarzies.  It is native in the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere south of the Boreal forest. 

Pollen counts have shown that Hawthorn was found in megalithic tombs (before 6000 BC). The wood is hard and tough and was used for veneer, cabinet work, boxes, tool handles, mill-wheel teeth, mallets and the ribs of small boats as well as for firewood and charcoal since Hawthorn wood burns very hot.  The bark was used to dye wool black. Hawthorn provides food and shelter for many species of birds, insects and mammals.  Thrushes and waxwings like the haws. 

According to Diana Beresford-Kroeger, the Druidic scholars had a belief system that included the concept of the soul or anam and spiritual guidance or anamcara that arose from everywhere.  They believed that soul filled the living world including water, mountains, plants, animals and insects and that this soul connected all of life.  The ancient Celts believed that Hawthorn “provided entry into the world of fairies or the “people of good deeds, the si” (p.225).   Hawthorn was often a guardian of sacred springs such as the one in Madron in Cornwall, UK.

The Celts divided the year into a dark and a light half.  The new year on Nov. 1^st was the beginning of the dark time and the Beltane or Mayday on May 1^st started the light part.   In the Ogham knowledge system, Hawthorn was the Queen of the May that could only ever wed the Oak King (the tree of May).  And thus, Hawthorn blossoms and sprigs were used to create the wreaths that were worn by young women as they danced around the Maypole on May Day, an important celebration of fertility.  Hawthorn also decorated the May Pole and people’s homes.

As a sacred tree that connected people with the Otherworld and the si, Hawthorns were also known as rag trees because people would write invocation on strips of cloth and tie them to the trees as a part of wishing or healing rituals.

In ancient times there were many goddesses for whom the Hawthorn was sacred.  It was associated with fertility. In Hawthorn you can see the two opposing paradigms of Celtic and Christian worldviews.  Chaucer writes:

Mark the fair blooming of the Hawthorn Tree

Who finely clothed in a robe of white,

Fills full the wanton eye with May’s delight.

 For the Church, the spring became a time of chastity and fasting for Lent as a way of superseding the old religion.  As the Church fought to diminish the Old Ways, Hawthorn was seen as being under the power of the devil. 

However, as people reclaim the knowledge of the ancients, Hawthorn is now understood to represent the law that says that sacredness demands respect.  According to Glennie Kindred, Hawthorn represents love, the heart, cleansing, releasing blocked energy, protection and preparation for spiritual growth.  Hawthorn helps to let go of fear and to liberate heart energy.

So, if you come across a Hawthorn at the edge of a field or forest, stop a moment and feel the tips of the thorns.  Look into the dense branches and see how it could protect birds and small animals.  If the flowers are in bloom, breath the scent in deeply and know that chemicals are speaking to your heart to increase its supply of blood to its muscle.  Feel your heart grow strong and know that anamcara surrounds you.

Last August, I posted a story based on Hawthorn here.  It is a part of the collection of Anna Stories.  

 Some Species: English Hawthorn (Crataegus laevigata)   Common Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna).  In Ontario, the more common species include Downy Hawthorn (C. mollis), Cockspur Hawthorn (C. crus-galli), Dotted Hawthorn (C. punctata) and the most northern species Fleshy Hawthorn (C. succulenta).   Also Canadian Hawthron (C. canadensis) which has very long thorns.  My quest this summer will be to learn how to identify the Hawthorns that I come across, once the leaves are out.

This is a compilation of information taken from the following sources:

Diana Beresford-Kroeger (2019) To Speak for the Trees. Random House: Canada.

Danu Forest (2014) Celtic Tree Magic: Ogham Lore and Druid Mysteries. Llewellyn Worldwide: Woodbury, Minnesota.

Glennie Kindred, (1997) The Tree Ogham. Glennie Kindred: UK.

Liz and Colin Murray (1988) The Celtic Tree Oracle. Connections Book Publishing: London, UK.

Jacqueline Memory Peterson (1996) Tree Wisdom: The definitive guidebook to the myth, folklore and healing power of Trees. Thorsons: London.

Elen Sentier (2014) Trees of the Goddess. Moon Books: Winchester, UK.

 

 

 

A Stillpoint

 

My father reclines in his wheelchair,

Listing to the right, one slipper eschew,

Alone in his room, waiting

Behind a closed door.

 

It has taken months for his nursing home

To break out of its outbreak,

To vaccinate, isolate and test,

To update, report and consult.

 

New protocols are in place.

New questions are now asked

And answers recorded, PPE donned,

Test results shown, temperature taken.

 

Then I watch the same old outdated yet

Newly mandated videos on PPE,

And washing hands and then I’m handed

A new list of Do’s and Don’t’s to read. Later.

 

The plan for drop off and pick up at

The unit door is explained and repeated.

Should we synchronize our watches?

Have a contingency plan?

 

Gown, mask and face shield in place,

I follow my escort through the halls,

Remembering not to touch anything,

Smiling behind my mask at residents.

 

I walk the last hundred yards alone after

Promising to go straight to his room.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

A nurse asks me who I am visiting.

 

I ask if he’s in his room but she doesn’t know.

I look down the hall and see the closed door

Of his room.  Now I need help.

I have no protocol for closed doors.

 

She escorts me to the door and knocks.

I am allowed in for our one-hour visit

And there he is two and a half months

Older than when I last saw him.

 

My father reclines in his wheelchair

Listing to the right, one slipper eschew.

I lean down and tell him who I am

Yelling from behind my mask and shield.

 

I ask the nurse for the headset with the mic

So that he can hear me.

She goes off in search of this gadget

That will make conversation possible.

 

Soon she returns, sets it up, adjusts the volume,

And like magic, he can hear my voice

And answer from within the dementia,

Blessedly clear this morning.

 

There is not too much to say,

And so, I turn on his music on my device;

Handel’s Messiah, the traditional version,

The one that he prefers.

 

Then Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion

Since Easter is approaching.

But he can’t recognize it now and

Doesn’t think it really is Bach.

 

Bach’s Goldberg Variations is next.

Yes, he acknowledges that is Bach

And Glenn Gould is the pianist.

Today my father remembers him.

 

Remembers that he died thirty years ago,

Remembers that he liked to hum along.

“There was a wrong note there,” he says

“Did you hear it?”

 

“No,” I admit, chuckling to myself.

“There are rather a lot of notes.”

We talk about ¾ time and 4/4 time

His lips silently count out the time signature.

 

Major chords ordered and safe,

Minor chords acknowledging sadness,

Slowly, carefully played notes and

Bursts of bustling frenetic energy.

 

This is where the father I knew

Still lives and knows and relates.

The language of music is the one

That allows us to communicate.

 

It is as though time has stood still

Here in this tiny, sparse, sterile room.

Chaos and complexity swirl around us.

But for this one hour we find a still point.

 

It is just Bach and Gould,

My father and I,

And the voice of a piano

Connecting us to Everything.

 

 

 

The Point Where History Interects

 Like so many of us, during the first year of the COVID-19 pandemic, my mind turned to the past.  I was aided in this by my second cousin in England.  He is a keen amateur genealogist who used his vast amounts of now free but locked-down time to educate me about our family tree.  As my parents were immigrants from northern England and I had only met a few relatives a handful of times, I knew very little about my ancestors other than a collection of anecdotes and childhood memories.

My cousin made me a guest on his ancestry page and I began exploring the twigs, branches and roots of our family tree.  Being from the working class, most of our family members worked in cotton mills or other working class jobs.  However, our Great Uncle Stirling Marron was a well-known politician in the town of Oldham where our family is from.  During his time as an alderman, councillor and mayor Stirling Marron fought long and hard to get people who were mentally ill taken care of under the new National Health Service instead of under the Poor Law.  This intrigued me and I asked my cousin why our Great Uncle would care so much about this issue.

This simple question led to a long reply in which my cousin described the history of caring for the poor in England.  In the medieval era, the monasteries took care of the poor until Henry VIII destroyed them in 1536. By 1601 it was clear that the government had to fill this gap in care and the Poor Law Act was created which had four categories of poor: impotent, able-bodied, idle and children.  This system in which aid was dispensed at a Parish level lasted about two hundred years until industrialization and urbanization in the nineteenth century led to the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 which sought to spend less on the poor who were now in only two categories; deserving and undeserving.  The idea was to make workhouses which already existed with living conditions that were so deplorable, that only the truly destitute would apply for help.  These conditions were made famous by Charles Dickens in Oliver Twist published in 1838.

At this point in the story, I will fly over the Atlantic Ocean and land in Simcoe County, Ontario, Canada.  Not only have I been learning about my ancestors’ histories in England, but I have been investigating the history of the land where I now live.  What we now call Canada was home to Indigenous Peoples for thousands of years or time immemorial before Europeans found their way here around the same time as the Poor Law was enacted.  As more and more settlers arrived in this area, the original inhabitants of this territory were pushed onto smaller and smaller pieces of land by the British military officers who were put in charge by the Crown. 

In 1830, the Chippewa of what is now called Simcoe County were convinced by the Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada, Sir John Colborne to move onto a parcel of land of about ten thousand acres between the Narrows where Lakes Simcoe and Couchiching meet (present day Orillia) and Matchedash Bay including Coldwater.  This reserve was an experiment which would affect future reserves in Canada and elsewhere. 

The government of the time wanted the Chippewa who traditionally lived by hunting and fishing, to farm instead.  Despite the government offering little help, the people learned to farm and did well.  They also built a grist mill and a saw mill, created a road, built houses and a school in Coldwater and a community in what is now Orillia.  As I do more research and listen to Indigenous Knowledgekeepers, the stories of these people emerge from a dominant colonial narrative.  The three Chippewa chiefs, Aisance, Musquakie and Snake constantly advocated for their people with the British leaders as they adapted to their new circumstances.

However, in 1836, a new Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada was appointed by Britain.  Sir Francis Bond Head had just finished an appointment of Assistant Poor Law Commissioner in Kent, England which he began in 1834 after the Poor Law Amendment Act was passed.  In this job, he had created the document Plan of a Rural Workhouse for 500 Persons.  In this plan, males and females were separated but the sick, the well, young and old, sane and insane were all put together in tight quarters and only a barely subsistence diet was provided.  The following year Head came to Upper Canada.  The belief that inequity was not only normal but was sanctioned by God came with him.

Once here, Head determined that the Chippewa were “undeserving” of the reserve land and that the new settlers were more “deserving”.  Through subterfuge he tricked the three Chippewa chiefs into signing a document that said in writing that they had surrendered this land.  However, this is not the agreement that the Chiefs thought they were making.  They thought they were getting title to the land.

And this was the point of intersection for me.  The history of my ancestors which was interesting didn’t seem to have much to do with my life here in Canada.  But, here was the very mind set that we now think of as abhorrent being used right here on this land to steal that land from the people who had been so generous and willing to share.  The weight of my ancestry landed on me.  It was heavy and dark as the Dickens.

The Chippewa leaders appealed the “deal” over and over again but the government didn’t listen.  Nor did it listen in 1842 or 1850 or 1892.  And not in 1991 when the Chippewa Tri-Council with legal representation petitioned the Canadian government again.  Not until 2002, when the Canadian government entered into negotiations which resulted in an out of court settlement in 2012 in the amount 307 million dollars.  It took 176 years to get the descendants of my ancestors to admit that what they did was illegal and immoral and to take action to redress the wrong.

My Great Uncle Stirling spent the last portion of his life fighting to have the mentally ill cared for by the National Health Service which began in 1948, instead of being “managed” by the Poor Law.  By 1959, the battle was won with the passage of the Mental Health Act.  It only took 11 years.  Stirling died three years later at the age of 61. 

I will never know what drove him to do this.  But, in learning the stories of my ancestors and seeing the worldview that they brought to this land and the harm that it caused, I feel driven to create change and be a part of the healing. I may not live to see what this will bring but perhaps I can create some pathways for those who are still to be born.  I am inspired by my Indigenous friends and neighbours who did not give up and I am inspired by my Great Uncle to live my responsibility as a settler on this land and as a treaty person in a good way.

 

 

 

Snowpack Sinkholes

 The late winter snow pack is quite deep in the forest.  In the places where people have walked or skied frequently, it is also quite solid.  However, the warm March sun is having an unsettling effect on the snow.  What feels like solid ground under my feet suddenly gives way and I am mid-shin deep in a snow sinkhole.  This sudden descent of one foot sends a jarring wave of force through my legs and spine which gets trapped in the areas where I am already a bit tight, my low back and my neck.  It is a bit like getting a whip lash when a moving car suddenly stops and the force of forward motion whips through the body and gets stuck in tight areas, like the neck.

It didn’t take too many snow sinkholes for me to start feeling pain in my low back and a mild headache coming from my neck.  The early part of the trail had been quite solid and so I was now quite a ways away from the parking lot.  It didn’t take too long for me to start feeling irritable and cranky and strangely sad.  I leaned into the emotion.  What was it exactly?  What was this sadness?

The sadness felt very similar to the lingering emotions of having things open up and then close down as the pandemic rating fluctuates like the spring thermometer.  The sadness felt like the disappointment of not being able to visit my father or talk to him on the phone while his nursing home was in outbreak.  The sadness of not knowing if I would ever see him again.  It felt like the sadness of not being able to make social plans for the future.

After about twenty minutes of this sudden dropping of one foot I felt like crying or simply lying in the snow and giving up.  I felt angry that I found myself in this position and I wanted to lash out.  But at what?  At whom?  It felt like my reactions to this very common spring problem were over-reactions.  And so, I got curious about them.

I thought about something that I had recently read about refugees, people who found themselves in a new place where they had never wanted to go.  People who had landed somewhere else in their quest to stay alive.  I had read that it is hard for them to trust that life will be good again, to have hope in the future.  My inability to trust the ground or snow that I was walking on to support me felt a little like that.  I felt like giving up.

It occurred to me that people all over the world are feeling like they can’t trust the future, that they can’t trust what they used to take for granted as solid ground.  Each new disappointment, each new restriction feels jarring and it gets stuck wherever we are already tight, wherever our fear is already being held.  I have observed people getting angry over seemingly small things and people wanting to give up, going flat and just waiting.

In many countries, the citizens don’t welcome refugees.  Perhaps they tell themselves that these people are to blame for their circumstances.  I wonder as the whole world has been thrust into a new world that they feel they didn’t choose, if we can have more empathy for refugees.  If we can realize that refugees who build new lives are in fact our role models, our teachers?

Anyone who walks in the Canadian woods year-round could tell you that at some point the snow pack becomes unstable and that snow that has not been packed down by machines or people might not support your weight.  It should come as no surprise.  And yet each misstep felt like a betrayal of sorts.  Perhaps, I had put my faith in the wrong place, perhaps I had wrongly expected solidity from loosely packed snow.  Perhaps, we have put our faith in industrialization, urbanization and the market economy and are now realizing that they won’t sustain us, they won’t hold us up.

It seems that we need to find other things to rely on.  Ideas and knowledge that will sustain us and hold our weight.  Perhaps we need to walk more lightly on the Earth and ask less of her.  Perhaps we can learn from Indigenous knowledge on how to do this.  Lying down in the snow and giving up will only lead to one chilling outcome. 

Back in the forest, I walked more slowly so the jarring when it occurred was well, less jarring.  I tried to find solid areas on the trail and I persevered, knowing that it would end eventually.  Once at home, I put a hot pack on my back and rested so that my back and neck could relax and soften.  Taking care of ourselves is one way to heal from all the jarring.  Finding ways to relax and soften, to dare I say it, have a little fun and laugh.  And, realizing that we are not in this alone.  There are many others who are feeling the same way, having a kind of refugee experience.  We could have empathy for each other and allow this to draw us closer, to remember our connections.

In a few weeks, the snow will be gone and then there will be puddles and mud which can be slippery.  I will still have to walk carefully, paying attention and listening with my feet.  I will still have to be careful when I go to work, when I go into a store and when I meet people walking outside.  There is a certain tension that goes along with all of these things, with living in a new world that we didn’t choose.  It takes courage to persevere and to keep creating.  It takes compassion to recognize how we are feeling, how others are feeling and to care for ourselves.  And it takes community to encourage and care for each other along the way especially with all the jarring.  These are qualities well worth developing.  They will stand us in good stead in the future.  They will help us to build resilience for the snow will fall again and thaw again.  Some of the story will be old but how we deal with it could be new.

Ash: Ogham Tree for March

 

The ancient Celts used the first alphabet in Europe which is called the Ogham script.  Each letter is associated with a tree or an important plant.  The alphabet was used as a mnemonic device to encode knowledge, the Celtic song of the universe, Ceolta na Cruinne (Diana Beresford-Kroeger).  The thirteen months of the year (pre-Gregorian calendar) were each represented by a particular tree.  The new year began on Nov. 1^st with Birch, followed by Rowan in December, Alder in January and Willow in February.  The tree associated with March is Ash or Nuin.  It represented the letter N.

Nuin,   N

The Celtic Ash was Fraxinus excelsior (European Ash) and it towered above the Oaks. In my area of central Canada, there are at least 3 of the 14 Ash species: Fraxinus americana or White Ash, Fraxinus pennsylvanica  or Green Ash and Fraxinus nigra or Black Ash which is the one that the Potawatomi make baskets from.

Ash prefers to grow in mixed deciduous woodlands. They are deep rooted. Ash trees have also been planted along roads and in parks.  Ash leaves are compound with four to eleven pairs of leaflets with toothed edges that are opposite on the central stalk.  Each tree has both male stamens and female seed vessels.  Once fertilized, the seed vessels change into flat “keys” that hang in bunches like a key ring, sometimes until the following spring.  These keys spin to the ground once they are released from the stem.  Once in the soil they don’t grow until their second year.  

The word ash and Fraxinus both come from words meaning spear as the wood was good for spears since it is strong and flexible.  Ash wood is now used for tools, handles, furniture, sports equipment, walking sticks, tent pegs, oars, gates, and wheel rims.  It was used in airplane wings in WW2.  In Wales and Ireland, all oars and coracle slats are made of ash to protect against drowning. The Vikings made their boats from oak but all the magical parts were of Ash.  It is still thought to bring protection to travelers. 

Both the European and the North American Ash have a biochemical called escin which tightens the peripheral arteries of the skin.  In Calabria in southern Italy, ash is grown as a crop tree for the sap.  The sap is high in sugars and can be extracted by puncturing the bark.  As the sap accumulates and dries it forms a white mass that is called “manna”.  Manna contains four sugars and some medicines.  This could be the manna referred to in the Bible.

In Ireland, Ash sticks were used in the game of hurling which is like field hockey. Ash wood was also used to make wagons, coaches, fencing, rails, poles, furniture and implements.  It was sometimes used instead of yew for bows and it was used for the shafts of arrows. The wassail bowl that the druids used to toast the harvest of apples was made from Ash and it was the traditional wood of the yule log at the Solstice to call back the sun god.

Ancient wisdom referred to the Cosmic Ash or the World Tree.  In Norse mythology, the Ash is Yggdrasil, the tree of Odin which spans the Universe as well as the Odin’s vehicle for travel (his eight legged horse).  The roots of this World Tree are in the underworld, the branches support the heavens and the Earth is at its centre.   “In Celtic cosmology in particular it connects the three circles of existence – Abred, Gwynedd and Ceugant … or past, present and future…” (Murray p. 32)  So, the Ash can be seen as spanning the macrocosm and the microcosm which can be expressed in the phrase “as above, so below.” For the Celts, Ash was a Chieftain tree.  It is associated with gods and goddesses throughout ancient Europe and a spear is often part of the association.  It is a tree of power.  Ash is also Gwydion’s tree   Gwydion was a Celtic shapeshifter and trickster and he had a spear made of ash which helped with transmutation.  His story is thought to be the origin of April Fool’s Day because he fooled his sister into arming his nephew Lleu.

The Teutons had great reverence for the Ash tree and after the Germanic tribes entered Britain, Ash replaced  Birch as the wood of the maypole and it became a symbol of the sun and the axis mundi or axis around which the “sacred dance of life takes place.” (Peterson, p.158)  Ash had a connection with the sun and lightning and it loved the water.

According to Glennie Kindred, Ash represents knowledge such as: “a key to universal truth; every action has a reaction; interlinking circles of existence; healing the inner child; and the power of positive affirmations.” (p. 21)  “Every action on one level affects the other levels.  Every action has a reaction; physically, mentally and spiritually,” writes Kindred. (p 22)

And so, Ash is about how everything is connected.  “Through Ash we can translate the past and realign our realities of the present with a wiser view to the future.  Through Ash, we become aligned with the world,” writes Peterson. (p. 157)  Ash is “the tree of balance.” (Peterson, p 160) It links inner and outer worlds.  It is ruled by the sun but responds to water.  It’s connection with the past helps to “heal the past and reclaim our true spiritual heritage.” (Peterson, p 161)

I pondered all these things today as I walked through the forest that has welcomed me into its community of beings for the past year.  The Emerald Ash Borer has moved into the area and the County Foresters are taking out the dead and dying Ash trees from the forest.  As I walked, I could hear the machines that are cutting the trees down.  The logs are being stacked by the road for eventual pickup.  The pile grows and grows.  I believe they are doing this to stop the spread of the insect.  I also know that there are hundreds of Ash saplings throughout the forest that will be left. 

The pile of logs reminds me of the bodies of senior citizens who have died of COVID.  I wonder what the forest will look like once we are allowed back into the cutting zone.  It is where the Wild Leeks, Trilliums and Blue Cohosh will emerge in a few months.  I honour the fallen Ash trees with an offering, a witness to their passing.  I imagine that the spaces in the canopy will urge Maple, Beech and Balsam saplings to grow quickly.  This will be an opportunity for them.  And the forest will change its composition. And I wonder what our world will look like without all of those seniors and younger people who have passed on.  The composition of our world will shift.  Will new things grow in their place? Of course they will.  It is the way that things work.

And I wonder about the symbolism of the world tree, the tree that helps us to heal the past as it is dying all around me.  I wonder about the wounds of the past caused by war, by the spear.  I wonder about the protection that Ash offers to we travelers as I see the Ash logs piled up, ready for transport.  Will all this death transform how we see our world?  Will we value our seniors and trees more as we see them pass away?  The tree that has a connection to the sun, is falling at a time of climate change.  How can Ash’s message about how everything is connected help us to heal?  As this axis mundi falls, it seems to symbolize to me the fact that we have lost our centre.  Nature is no longer at the centre of our spinning world.  It has been pushed to the sidelines leading to species destruction and habitat degradation.

The sound of the forestry equipment in the sanctuary of the forest is heartbreaking.  The inability to see or talk to my aged father in a nursing home with a COVID outbreak is heartbreaking.  The urge to walk away, to close my eyes, to plug my ears is strong.  It takes courage to witness these events and to stay present with compassion.  It takes courage to imagine a different way of living, of honouring all our relations.  Ash wood is strong and flexible as it connects all realms.  Ash is the tree of balance.  Perhaps my ancestors’ ancient wisdom can support me here and now as I follow Ash’s lead to find strength, flexibility, balance and courage to take part in this healing story.

This is a compilation of information taken from the following sources:

Diana Beresford-Kroeger (2019) To Speak for the Trees. Random House: Canada.

Danu Forest (2014) Celtic Tree Magic: Ogham Lore and Druid Mysteries. Llewellyn Worldwide: Woodbury, Minnesota.

Glennie Kindred, (1997) The Tree Ogham. Glennie Kindred: UK.

Liz and Colin Murray (1988) The Celtic Tree Oracle. Connections Book Publishing: London, UK.

Jacqueline Memory Peterson (1996) Tree Wisdom: The definitive guidebook to the myth, folklore and healing power of Trees. Thorsons: London.

Elen Sentier (2014) Trees of the Goddess. Moon Books: Winchester, UK.