I’ve been doing research on trees, lately.
My dad’s family is Scots-Irish, and I grew up with Irish music (I play the bodhran). In recent years, I’ve started examining that thread of memory with more intent. It’s easy to take your childhood experiences for granted–they become a part of you and you never think about them. But lately I’ve been digging into some research to see how I “fit” into the larger narrative of human civilization.
That has me looking at Celtic spirituality, especially herb lore and the Ogham tree calendar. We recently bought a house out here in Texas, and my ambition is to grow magic trees here–we’re putting down roots metaphorically; why not literally, too?
The trouble, of course, is that Ireland and central Texas have very different climates–and I’m very intent on using native species for the garden wherever I can, trees included. We already have an oak tree, and it turns out Ash trees are suffering from a devastating beetle infestation across the US at present, so I’m having to get creative.
Another thread of my childhood is the desert. When my mom and dad got married, Mama’s one request was that Daddy take her somewhere without mosquitos. (She comes from Minnesota.) Like the music, I took it for granted–no trees, too dry, everything green wants to kill you if you touch it. Seems like you have to move away from somewhere to really appreciate it.
So, I’m reading about desert willows. In Celtic lore, they’re symbols of renewal, healing, rebirth, and witchcraft. (“wicca” used to mean “bend or manipulate” and referred to crafting using the flexible twigs of the willow.) The desert willow isn’t a “true” willow; it just looks like one–but it’s native to Texas, and to the desert climates I grew up in.
A seed that grows so fiercely that it was never planted–it was always there.
Erin Lee Firestine 