The Magic
of Trees
Trees connect us to the natural world; they act as primary symbols of the sheer power and presence of nature. They are steadfast, ever-present, strong, long-lived, and they sing of the earth and their place within it. They are the storytellers of location, and they mold and form the landscape that we are familiar with. They bring personality and attitude to our locales, and they offer respite, shelter, and protection to those who live within them or near them. They are important not only in the spiritual spectrum but also on a purely physical level: they provide us with the clean air necessary for life; they absorb the toxic gasses that would poison and eventually destroy oxygen-breathing life forms.
In the following chapters I shall explore the symbolism of trees in the Celtic tradition and how they were perceived as transmitters of wisdom. I shall examine their role as teachers and allies in magic and conclude with rituals and exercises rooted in Celtica that will enrich your relationship with the tree kingdom. I will also explore the nature and power of the wand as the primary tool of the Celtic magician, how to summon an army of trees for your magical work, and share secrets of the ogam, where trees aid our divination skills.
The Love of Trees
Trees teach us about the nature of where we live or the places that we love to visit and spend time amongst. Even the solitary tree in a courtyard of a hospital or the office block where you may spend most of your day has a story; they have something to tell us about the nature of being and the mysteries of life. They are individuals, each one with its own unique personality and sense of place. To spend time amongst the trees—to observe the turning of the great wheel and the drama of sun and moon on the fabric of their being—alters the way in which we perceive them. We may pass these creatures every day and rarely pay attention to them, and yet they are there, ever-present, silent sentinels of the passing seasons.
They inhabit two worlds. Their roots are hidden in the dark, damp underworld, unseen and yet filled with potential. Their trunks reach up from the soil, strong, resilient, lifting its spirit towards branches that become twigs and buds and leaves; with arms outstretched they reach for the skies, where their cells open to the air. They are simultaneously hidden, apparent, and present. If we watch and if we listen with our subtle senses, they become teachers of mystery; in the Celtic continuum they are transmitters of secrets who whisper of a deep connection our ancestors had with the land beneath their feet. And just as we are the sum total of all that has been before us, so are the trees, for each oak contains the memory of all oaks since the dawning of that species; in a magical sense they are as much our ancestors as the humans that have long since died.
To watch is to learn, to learn is to feel, and that feeling causes us to move closer to the trees and to the mysteries that they are privy to. They absorb the world and process it slightly differently than we do, but they are a part of us and we are a part of them; the particles of our breath are absorbed through their leaves. They sense our stories just as much as we sense theirs. The only difference is there is no expectation—we don’t have to connect to them, to commune with them, to move closer to them in order to learn the mysteries of being—but if we were to, by the gods we would be transformed by it.
The Roots of Tradition
The classical writers inform us that the priests of the Celts, the Druids, worshipped and practiced their religion in groves, which is significant when one considers that the entire landscape of Britain and Northern Europe was literally littered with ancient monuments. And yet the Druids chose instead to practice within groves of trees; why? This must be indicative of something that was pertinent to their tradition, and we find meaning to that in the mysteries of trees and the wisdom that they transmit to us. In fact, the word Druid itself is formed from two components: dru meaning “oak” and id meaning “to know.” In the current Welsh language, the word for Druid is Derwydd, which contains the derw prefix, which also means “oak.”
The suffix wydd is a mutation of gwydd, which deserves further exploration, for within this one word can be gleaned a deeper understanding of the development of words associated with trees and magic. Trees teach us something about the nature of magic and being and the manner by which humankind perceives themselves and their relationship with the natural world, and this can be seen demonstrated in the evolution of words within the Celtic languages. Some words, particularly the aforementioned gwydd, would hold different meanings to different people; to some it simply implied a tree or shrub, while to others the implications were far more mysterious.
It has long been accepted in Wales that the ancient Druids may have referred to themselves collectively as the Gwyddon or the Gwyddoniaid, which, according to the University of Wales’s Dictionary of the Welsh Language, means “men of learning, wise men, druids, scientists.” 73 It also states that the terms gwyddon and gwiddon could also be used in reference to a witch, a giant, a wizard or sorcerer, a woodland deity or satyr. 74 These words share the root word gwydd and can be broken down to mean one or all of the following: presence, sight, wild, untamed, woody, tree, forest, branches. Figuratively it refers to lineage and genealogy, and may give rise to the Anglicized term “family tree.” 75 All in all, the term is in direct reference to the trees, but not necessarily to their physical attributes; it is perhaps more indicative of their energetic value and sublime qualities.
We can take this word even further, for it forms the root of the Welsh word gwybodaeth, which translates as “knowledge”—implying that knowledge in itself, in a Celtic sense, is gained from the language of trees, which is attributed the term gwyddoniaeth, used today to mean “science.” One could hypothesize that the above categories of gwyddon and gwyddoniaid were practitioners of gwyddoniaeth, the language of trees. Gwydd has another facet, gwyddor, which refers to the rudiments of learning, of first principles and the assimilation of knowledge. 76 And all of this connected to the most steadfast symbol of the Celtic traditions, the tree. By means of ancestry and articulation, words and semantics, we can learn to appreciate the wonder that the trees held for our Celtic ancestors, a wonder that is continuously embraced in modern Celtic magic.
The branches of the tree of tradition reach out from these ancient words that refer to tree, a concept that the genius poet Iolo Morganwg adored and perpetuated in his seminal work on the Druid mysteries called Barddas—a piece of work so important to the development of several branches of modern Paganism that without it, these words would not appear, and books of this nature would not exist in the form they do today. Iolo initiated the love for indigenous philosophical and theological exploration, and by his inspiration the modern Pagan traditions of Druidry and Wicca have been colored by a deep love and appreciation of Celtica. We have a family tree, we are connected, it is a lineage that unites us—just like the word gwydd itself—to ancestry and heritage.
Trees formed the platforms of initiation and held within them the mysteries of the world. The Celtic Druids surrounded themselves in trees and in symbols of trees, and within the art of the Middle Ages and the Romantic Movement, the oak and its leaves and acorns became synonymous with the Celts and their priests. This tradition continues to this day, and although its actual origin may be lost to us and it may well have evolved and changed over the centuries, its persistence to exist is indicative of the fact that trees were central to the Celtic way of life.
A Trunk to Lean Against: Trees as Teachers
A tree can define a location: they may be the genius loci of your garden or their corner of the woodland or of a lonely and exposed hillside. They can cause us to swim in deep mystery, to be lost in the wonder of profound wisdom; on a simple level, they can teach us so much. If we simply observe a tree, to become still in its presence, it will teach us the mystery of being and the unique relevance of our own personal existence. A tree can impart immense wisdom and knowledge if we are willing and able to receive it.
Think of a tree—in fact, it’s even better if you can go outside and sit near one or nestle into its trunk. Stop, still your mind, watch, listen, and be. Smell the tree; allow your senses to blend with it, to become a part of it. As you do, consider this: a rowan tree seeks not to be anything other than rowan; it has its unique nature and personality depending on its location; it has its own function and purpose. Its leaves and fruits are the same as every other rowan within its family tree; it just wants to be rowan. It does not choose to sing the song of birch or oak or yew, it sings its own unique song, unapologetically, without recourse or recompense. It is rowan.
Consider those as human attributes; how often do we strive to sing our own unique song, or do we mostly succumb to peer pressure and attempt to conform to the standards that others have of us or expect of us? I think if we were truly honest with ourselves we would all be guilty of this, of dampening our own unique song for the sake of another, of continuously compromising to our own detriment. This is not the nature of tree; it does not express itself selfishly, it does not sing its own song just to be rebellious or for the want to not conform. It does so for that is its nature, and maybe, just maybe, if we acted in accordance to our own unique songs, our lives would be a little richer, with a dash more color.
meditation
Whose song do you sing?
Stop for a minute or two—take a breath with the land beneath you, breathe in the sky above you, and deeply breathe with the rhythm of the seas that surround the shores of your land. Whose song do you sing? To what degree do you suppress your own color and the lyrics of your own life for the sake of others? Magic is the act of transformation, and perhaps there is no other act of magic more powerful than self-transformation. Magic causes us to stand in our power and to be aware and fully present with ourselves. Society places restrictions and obligations on us that may crush our own ability to express ourselves fully. Do you compromise your own song for the sake of others? Do you adjust or turn down the volume of your own uniqueness for someone else’s benefit? If so, why?
What could you do to change this—to sing your own unique song without emulation, without imitation? On the other hand, do you go out of your way to be so uniquely expressive that you inadvertently offend or annoy? Our songs are special, individual, and yet it is a narrow blade that we traverse between expression for the sake of expression and integrity. Look to the trees.
The Celtic Tree of Life
Consider the physical function of trees—the manner by which they enrich the soil and transform the landscape but also clean and process our planet’s air. The Celtic concepts of the three worlds of land, sea, and sky can be seen emulated in the nature of the tree, whose roots reach into the underworld of connectivity and oneness akin to the properties of sea. Its trunk is apparent in the world and on the land, and its branches reach into the potential of sky. But further mystery can be gleaned when we consider the tree that exists within us, for hidden within the darkness of our chest cavities is a perfect tree; albeit represented upside down, it exists nonetheless, and its qualities replicate its external woody counterpart. It is the bronchial tree.
The bronchial tree exists within the core of our being; it has a trunk and two primary branches that reach into the left and right lungs. These branches then form further offshoots, becoming smaller and finer as they reach ever further towards the edges of the lungs. Surrounding these branches are the alveoli and the fabric of the lungs, the leaves of our own internal tree. Its primary function is the exchange of gases necessary for life in the precise manner of the tree.
The trees of our world teach us to look inward to the place of mystery that resides within us, and we can access this by focusing on our own internal tree. The mystery of being and the truth of magic lie hidden within us and are controlled by what is perhaps the most peculiar of human glands, the thymus. This endocrine gland, which is large in infancy and slowly atrophies as we grow older, sits directly over the base of the bronchial tree and sets inherited patterns. Its endocrine function sets the scene for the rest of our human lives; it predetermines our susceptibility to disease and the natural manner by which we will die (unless death is caused by external, mechanical means). This is the seat of liminality and the place of fate unknown. However determined our attempts to communicate with it may be, we simply cannot. It is voiceless and will not permit itself to be swayed or influenced. It is the result of thousands of generations of genetic predisposition and inheritance. It can be seen as the void, the temporal space in the body, the physiological point of entry to the realm of the spirit. And from this point arises our own metaphorical Tree of Life.
Its roots are hidden in the unseen world, reaching through the thymus gland and into the between places. It is the point of wisdom that feeds us and represents our undercurrent, the magic of physiology and the miracle of life. Its trunk is the body, the physical being, our human anatomy, the visible aspects of who we are; it is our strength and presence. The branches of our Tree of Life can be seen in expression—it is our consciousness, our psychology, and the wonder of the mind. It is the expression of our life force, our beauty; it demonstrates that we are alive.
Consider the following two diagrams:
Trees are the lungs of the earth, and this is emulated within our own bodies. Consider the physical role of the previous physiological functions; they are responsible for the exchange of gases and the removal and assimilation of waste, which is unseen yet essentially present. It operates beneath the veneer of consciousness—it happens without us having to see it happening; it is invisible. It is responsible for air quality, communication, breath, vitality, and function. Without the Tree of Life—represented as a physical tree, the bronchial tree, and the mythological or metaphorical Tree of Life—life, as we know it, would not exist. Trees embody the mystery of life, and it’s no surprise that they function as important symbols within many spiritual traditions.
Our internal Tree of Life performs the physical function of breathing; the term spirit is derived from the Latin espiritus, meaning “vital breath.” Breath and breathing are synonymous with the mysteries of the spirit. Air is not out there, it is everywhere; when we breathe, our entire being is interacting with the world around it on both a physical and a spiritual level. And this air does not escape the closed circuit of our planet; it remains here as an essential component of the song of the earth. When we breathe with lucidity and perform breathing rituals, we can sense the breath of our ancestors and the spirits of place interacting with our own Tree of Life. It may be silent and unseen, yet it is one of the most profound tools of spiritual development that we have at our disposal.
We are the Tree of Life; it is not something that exists out there or is confined to the dusty corridors of arcane occult sciences: we are it. The Tree of Life is exactly that—life—and it lives within you!
Meditation
Being tree
Stop for a minute or two—take a breath with the land beneath you, breathe in the sky above you, and deeply breathe with the rhythm of the seas that surround the shores of your land. Consider the form of your body. Your feet are rooted to the land; they walk the path of your ancestors. Your body forms the trunk of being and the manner by which you interact with the world. Your expressions and emotions interact with the spirit, with the skies, touching, affecting. You are like a tree. Contemplate this as often as you can, together with your connection to the three worlds: your body as a tree.
Consider the Tree of Life within you; have you ever defiled it by inhaling smoke, narcotics, and solvents? If so, why? By understanding the mystery of our internal tree, why would you defile it knowingly? What does this tell you about your relationship with “you”? Body and spirit are not separate; their functions do not operate apart: all is as one. Sense the teachings of the tree within you.
The Tree of Initiation
Within the Mabinogi collection we find reference to a tree of supernatural quality that is identified as an oak. It seems that the oak was at the center of the Druid religions of ancient Europe, and it acts as conduit between the physical world and the spiritual; it is the bridge between the two. Within the fourth branch of the Mabinogi we learn about the birth and subsequent death and rebirth of the hero Lleu Llaw Gyffes. After his physical death he is transformed into an eagle who sits atop the Tree of Life; its flesh is rotten and maggots fall from it to be devoured by a great sow who forages amongst the roots. Gwydion comes to the bottom of the tree and sings an englyn to entice the eagle down through the branches and back to earth, to a life transformed.
In the englyn that Gwydion uses to encourage the transformation of Lleu Llaw Gyffes, he specifically addresses the great tree, simultaneously calling to the tree and the eagle as if they exist as facets of each other, both held in the same experience, pivoted between the sky and the earth, in that liminal place between the apparent and invisible worlds. The words he sings are:
Oak that grows between two lakes
Dark is the sky in the valley
Unless I am mistaken
This is because of the flowers of Lleu.
Oak that grows on a high plain
Rain does not wet it and heat cannot melt it
It sustains the one with nine score attributes
In its top is Lleu Llaw Gyffes.
An oak that grows on a slope
A sanctuary for the sweet prince
Unless I am mistaken
Lleu will come to my lap. 77
It is a sow who leads Gwydion to the Tree of Life, and she is often seen as a direct representation of the Goddess as initiatrix or as a representation of the indigenous underworld. So within this act of apparent initiation into the mysteries we have a magician who is led by a representation of the divine feminine to the base of the tree, in whose branches is held the battered body of the initiate as it awaits transference into its sublime body, into lucidity and knowing. Gwydion sings three englynion, and after each one, the eagle descends lower through the branches until finally it is taken up in the magician’s arms and transformed.
The above accounts concern the vital transformation of the initiate, the student that becomes the adept, and yet it demonstrates that the journey is far from easy—immensely and profoundly magical, yes, but hardly a walk in the park. This sentiment has been held by groves, covens, and magical lodges and orders since their creation. A magician’s life is a learned and practiced one, and the path is fraught with difficulty yet rewarded with wonder and awe.
This particular mystery teaches us the multifaceted aspects of magic and its practice: it is never clear cut; there are always several factors and functions to consider. Gwydion doesn’t just take himself off to find Lleu; he employs his intellect and common sense, his association and connection to an animal renowned for its connection to the divine feminine and the underworld, the sow. He employs his prowess as magician by calling to the Tree of Life and the initiate; his words have direct influence on both, and each responds accordingly. He employs his compassion, care, and love for the initiate, and the magic, to some degree, travels along this emotional conduit to reach the remnants of human consciousness retained within the body of the rotting eagle. And finally he uses his wand to transform the eagle back into a human being, and at the center of this tale of initiation and transformation is the Tree of Life.
The englyn that Gwydion sang above is a translation, and because of that it has lost its nuance and its rhyme. Essentially an englyn must rhyme; not only does this aid memorization, but it also acts as a form of mantra that focuses the mind on the task at hand by utilizing the power of sound, the power of words, and the emotional connection one has to the content of the englyn. These are not words or pretty little incantations for the sake of it; they are tools in their own rights. Our ability to create effective englynion must be a functional process of our magical practice; it requires thought, points of reference, and, above all, connection. With a little poetic license, the previous englyn can be rewritten to rhyme as follows:
Oak that grows between two lakes
Shadows cast on sky it makes
Unless a lie I do tell
It is the flowers of Lleu I smell.
Oak that grows in upland soil
Rain nor heat can never spoil
Twenty gifts its branches hold
And Lleu the skilful hand so bold.
Oak that grows beneath the slope
Shelters prince so fair with hope
Unless a lie is spoke of me
Lleu will come unto my knee.
The Teachings of Trees:
Singing the Song of Self
When we move towards the energetic fields of trees and begin to listen and work with them as intrinsic aspects of our magical practice, we are transformed by the experience. Practical, energetic, and experiential workings with trees provide an immersive method of exploring the self, and by proxy of this we develop a wondrous reciprocal relationship with the trees. Nothing is separate, we are all connected; by learning and forging relationships with nature, we move into deeper relationship with ourselves.
This exploration is not alien to spiritual traditions, particularly the animistic ones—“know thyself” say the wise words above the temple at Delphi. By listening to the songs of the trees, we begin to listen to the songs of nature and human nature, and the keyword here is listen. It is one thing to hear something, to be aware of something on the edges of our spirits, but quite another for it to move the spirit; first we must learn to listen. The trees teach us this. It’s all very well contemplating the nature of trees and the messages that they may transfer to our own spirits, but how do we make this real? How do we incorporate this into our own spiritual practice without it just being a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo?
Exercise
singing the song of tree
Find a tree that you are naturally drawn to; greet it, and ask for its company. Study the tree—its color, its texture, the ground that surrounds it. Note its foliage and the patterns they create on its branches. How does the tree interact with other plants in its area? Are there other trees that share this space with it?
Look for a fallen leaf or ask the tree if you can gently take a living leaf from one of its branches. Extend your intent by raising emotional energy from the center of your being. Project this emotion through your body, across the air that separates you, and to the body of the tree. Pluck this leaf of your choosing and proceed to sit beneath the tree and discover its own unique song.
Study the leaf and its pattern. Place upon its undulations (its edge patterns) musical notes that correspond to high or low notes, depending on the distance between the center of the leaf and its outer edge. Start at the stem and offer this the note of D, believed to be the note that the entire universe sings to. Hold the leaf upright between the finger and thumb of your left hand, and beginning on the left-hand side of the leaf, follow its pattern and attribute a note to each section. For example, if the next section extends significantly farther from the middle section, give it a note towards the top of the scale, perhaps an A; if the next indentation is deep, drop down to E. Follow this pattern all the way around the leaf until you have attributed a note to each outward-extending and inward-reaching pattern of the leaf’s outer edge.
If the leaf is not toothed to a great degree, simply follow the patterns from its widest point to its topmost tip and around the other edge and back to the stem. You are not trying to be Mozart here, so don’t be hard on yourself.
No musical prowess is required; just follow the keys through a single octave: C, D, E, F, G, A, B.
Have a notepad, journal, or piece of paper where you can draw the leaf’s shape and chart the notes that you attribute to its patterns.
Now sit still and sense the tree next to you. Begin to hum the music of the leaf. For example, a leaf that I have used for the purpose of this book sounds like this: D, B, E, F, E, F, D, C, D, A, G, B, F, G, D.
Hum the little tune to yourself for as long as it takes to be absorbed in the moment; throw in your voice if you are inclined to do so. Be here, with the tree.
A leaf is unique to a specific tree and akin to our own unique fingerprints; it cannot be replicated exactly by any other tree. It is unique. However, that one single, lonesome leaf is but a single facet that makes up a whole; it offers us a way in, a method to sense the uniqueness of the tree and how that may be represented within ourselves. As we sing and dance the pattern of the plant, we become immersed in that moment, without concern for yesterday or tomorrow, only now. On one level this little exercise develops a reciprocal relationship with another being; it allows the mind and spirit to be precisely focused on the teachings of tree—to be at one, to not know where you end and the tree begins. In itself it only represents a manner of focusing one’s mind, body, and spirit on the tree, something that we do not normally do. With the tune in mind and the leaf in hand, sitting under the shadow of the tree, we aim to lose ourselves in the experience. Only you and the tree exist at that moment in time; lose yourself in its song.