In my creative working space, I have framed photos of all the tree friends that have communicated with me and given me their wisdom. When I’m struggling I look up at these photos and remember that they are still out there and more so, still ready to welcome me each time. It wasn’t until I read a book called ‘If Trees Could Talk’ by Holly Worton and cried at the first story of an Oak tree that I realised trees were part of the puzzle—that the pull to nature I could feel in my animal body was indeed a calling from the earth itself, asking me to find the conversations that had been waiting for me. The first tree I ever connected to was a Celtic Maple —better known as a Sycamore—named Shyla. I never give them their names, I introduce myself and ask if they have a name or way I can refer to them; more often than not, they give me the name in a narrator way in my mind. Sometimes it can take a few tries, coming through as a jumble of sounds and letters and then it becomes fully formed. Shyla was the tree that gave me the confidence to ask these kinds of questions to others and to trust my instincts. I never look for a tree; I let them invite me.
Shyla called upon me and I didn’t have to ask; she stood out to me right away. The way her stunning bark-covered vessel curled, spiral like, towards the sky and her full, thick branches cascading outwards — she was a beauty I had missed for a long time in my world. Shyla communicated with me in two ways; through words in a narrator-like way in my mind and she also showed me images and colours. The first time I fully connected with her, with my hand placed upon her bark and my eyes closed, a sign of trust in her presence, she showed me past her outer layer. It was full of yellows and warm hues and a pulse that reminded me of the venous system within us. I remember feeling like my feet were rooted with her as she took me deeper down to show me the network underneath her. I had only ever experienced something like this once before and it was during a mediation. After this, I visited Shyla at every sabbath (each turning of the wheel of the year) and I took flowers to thank her and the tree network for all they do. I sat with her a while, sometimes we talked in our own ways to bridge our connection and sometimes, I just stayed silent and let us both feel the energy of the moment.
Shyla became a safe space for me to explore my new journey as a witch and gave me a connection unlike one I had ever experienced before. This was a friendship of alchemy, healing, and discovery. During our time on Litha in June 2024, she gave me two leaves from her branches, they fell as I was talking to her; one in my hand and the other landed on my shoulder. I cried the moment they touched me as I felt this overwhelming feeling of connection and gratitude. I visited with her for Lughnasadh in early August and as I left she told me “Ground, your roots”. A few weeks later I was feeling really off; I was in such a difficult headspace and I felt everything all at once —I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. I knew where I had to go and as I approached Shyla I saw orange council safety barriers on the pathway. I knew instantly, but still I looked up to confirm what my heart and soul already knew; the space was empty, her expansive branches no longer in the canopy. I crumbled, my knees started to shake and I wept loudly as I tentatively made my way to her fallen trunk. It was a grief like no other to match the connection we had made and I didn’t know what to do or say; I just stood there with my hand against her fallen body —had a small chuckle to see she had taken out the local churches power line on the way down—and let the tears keep falling.
I noticed the silence around her immediately. It was the height of Summer and yet there was no warm breeze in the trees, they were still, and the usual birdsong had disappeared. The space where she had once taken up was too vast to fully comprehend. Her roots were exposed and black, a gaping hole where she had once stood proud and graceful. She blocked the old pathway, and she had been cut into chunks from the shoulders up; that was the part of her that had fallen over the small wall near the path. The trunk was too vast for them to do anything with; they left her blocking the pathway and had made a clearing for a new walkway around her as well as adding stones at either side of her trunk so people could climb over her like a turnstile.
When a tree falls, does it make a sound?
When a tree falls, it is a silent death that ripples out into the woodland, the forest, the network. It exposes plants that once were shaded by their tallness, it evicts insects and birds that perched and ate, and it takes with it the life on the ground beneath it. The surrounding trees are aware of the absence just as I was; a hole in the ground and a link missing in their mycorrhizal chain. From my experience, I believe Shyla knew — she gave me gifts, parts of her before she fell to always keep with me and her last words were about roots. I also believe that Shyla didn’t go out quietly, she took out power lines, she continued to take up space, never being less than all she ever was, and show her presence in a big way.
Scientists have been listening more closely to trees in recent years and what they are finding is not so different from what many of us have felt in their presence. Through mycorrhizal fungal networks — threads of fungi that connect root systems beneath the soil — trees share nutrients, water, and chemical signals with one another. Suzanne Simard’s research shows that trees recognise their own kin through these networks and support them preferentially. A fallen tree leaves a gap in that conversation. There is also emerging research suggesting that trees under stress emit ultrasonic vibrations — sounds beyond human hearing (but perhaps not of animal’s). Whether we call this ‘screaming’ or something else, the idea that a tree registers distress and expresses it is not as far from our experience of the natural world as we might once have assumed.
What I know for sure is what I have experienced while I continue to visit Shyla. She is growing new life on her trunk, even atop her fallen root system, buds of new plant life are blossoming. She is teaching me constantly that death is really a new beginning, that you must let go of one form to take up another. I still visit her every sabbath and now the birds sing again, the trees move sure and steady in the breeze that passes through them and I still take her flowers; not to mourn, it is not a graveside, it is still the act of a friendship that I believe will continue to transcend through time and space. Shyla is still present in her space, although she no longer stands, she is no less mighty.
