I talk to trees. I haven’t always. I’d like to think ever since I’ve been nature-cognizant I’ve appreciated them. But now I tell them so. Yeah, this is where it gets a bit off the conventional track, so if you want to check out now, go ahead.
When the Druids said trees were sacred they were on to something. Trees have a spirit. They hold an ancient magic, even the youngest of them. No, I’m not giving up my belief in a higher power, but, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…”* At their most basic, trees sustain life. There is a scientific explanation for it, but how it came to be is a mystery best described as magic. My opinion.
In a world where kindness to all living things seems to have done a runner, I find myself increasingly fond of trees. I welcome the new ones, the seedlings and saplings, and wish them strength and long lives. I thank the old ones, bid their spirits farewell when they’ve given their all to push out what little green they have left in their final Spring. Touching their bark I can feel a history older than the trees themselves.
I am more aware of the spirits of the trees in the winter, as if the lack of leaves to cloak them draws them closer to the surface of human vision than at any other time. I have a favorite tree on a favorite walk and as I passed it today I could just about hear it telling me we would have to say goodbye soon. It has been old for awhile now, cracked and twisted, yet maintaining a strength of character most people never achieve. I fingered the bark, hoping to absorb some magic, already mourning its eventual absence. Wishing its spirit a peaceful release I walked on, hopefully carrying a little bit of old magic with me down the trail.
Be kind to the trees. Be kind to each other. Just be kind.