THE MOTHER TREE

THE MOTHER TREE
By Bioregional Animist Nanci

Birch bark...an exhausted looking slice of tree that is somehow speaking of times long past. It seems as though this tree has shed or somehow discarded this layer of itself, to be left as proof of its existence.
She’s tired, worn, grey with age, yet comfortable with the journey she has taken. Her skin is brittled with age, like the sinewy hands of a 1,000 year old Grandmother, knotted and twisted from ages of work, yet her energy seemed infinite, almost fluid like time.
She is marked with many lines, pathways, fissures and wrinkles, perhaps a testament to her long journey. She feels unassuming and practical, comfortable, if you will. She holds the coolness of the forest and the warmth of the sun at the same time.
She beckons me to come closer, to see and to listen. I struggle to understand what she wants me to know. Peering into her face, she seems to be looking back at me with eyes everywhere and she seems to possess the wisdom of a million ancient souls.
There is a feeling of transcendency as she shows me the tale of the universe.
Endless, open, wide and expansive! Every moment of it written on her aged, layered exterior. My eyes roam from picture to picture, my mind amazed at the striking, yet intricate photographs of her life’s journey.
An eagle, perched in its watchful repose, looking down, as if protecting its world. Below, groves of trees reaching up toward the sky. There are roads, paths, rivers, and waterfalls.
Even the knots take on a curious appearance. One shows me a canyon, rich with layers of time, as if trying to show me the rhythm of life, like water passing by.
Another knot reveals the stars, wrapped up neatly within what appears to be a nebula,circular lines adding a sense of movement to their portrait. It briefly reminds me of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”.
My eyes drift further to yet another knot. Within this knot is a tiny hole that invites me to follow it through, much like a winding road from outside to inside. Following the road, I turn her over to behold yet more of her well traveled soul.
There are gritty layers combined with a soft brown, velvety interior;; an illustration of her essence of spirit. It is almost as though she has weathered the ups and downs of life, yet has not lost her softness, her innocence, her ability to comfort and nurture.
There are fine grains of sand here, even finer bits of sparkling glass mixed in. Earthy, aged and wise, yet preserved as if young like a child. She has drunk from the cup of life and ingested the joy of living, in all its entirety. She certainly has a story to tell.
She has brought to mind such wonderful images, from Van Gogh’s “Starry Night to that familiar stretch of road just south of our sacred mountain, Mt. Katahdin on route 95 North in Maine, where there is a sudden break in the tree line amidst the repetitiousness of the pine.
There in the clearing is a grove of tall rather stately looking silver birch trees, leaves dancing in the sunlight. It is a small but welcome diversion on an endless drive. The birch trees offer a welcome respite from the tediousness of the trip. I always take my rest in that oasis; my face caressed by the wind and my own weary spirit welcomed home by the birches. A very feminine contrast to the maleness of Katahdin. There the world seems in perfect balance, if only for a brief moment.
No other tree can make the sun dance so playfully and make the whole forest come alive with joyous, golden twinkles. No other tree reflects the moon-light so magically from its silver bark.
The ancient people called the birch ‘the Mother Tree’, because after the ice age it gave birth to a new habitat for all the trees and plants which did not have the same powers of endurance.
They sometimes called the tree “the shining one” Maybe this nickname was given because of the bright silvery bark, or the way the sunlight dances in the leaves, or perhaps simply because of her radiating spirit.
She is a spirit of the universe, the sun, moon, and stars and she has told a million stories. Somehow I think she has a million more to tell.
Birch bark lives for years, long after it is separated from the tree. As I place her shed skin back on the forest floor, I wonder if someone else will pick her up again one day and she will tell the story again.
The story of an enduring spirit for all time.

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