I’m told that trees are scientifically astounding in the sheer height they attain; that humans are unable to recreate them. That they are so tall and narrow is a feat of engineering akin to pure magic.
But what do I know.
I know that I can’t comprehend their capacity to stand that straight and that tall, stretching their limbs in the wind. Like mythological creatures that only worship the sun.
I envy the strength and resilience. And occasionally fear them.
When I was quite small, enjoying popcorn and a movie with my mother and brother, we were suddenly terrified to find that the giant cottonwood in the front of the house had deposited a rather large limb through the front door.
Our dependence on these giants is insurmountable. Trees offer gifts of air, food, fuel, tools, shelter and, of course, medicine. Medicine in the ways of indigenous people: the anti-inflammatory effects of wild cherry bark, the soothing qualities of sassafras leaves, the calm deep breaths taken along a wooded trail, the cool green light under the summer canopy or the yellow light of autumn leaves, the entertainment of a tale set in haunted forests, or the searing joy of an epiphany at the feet of an ancient and monstrous giant.
On my path to understanding and appreciating indigenous relationships, trees capture my imagination carrying it to depths of the mystical watery underworld where only a few trees dare. Here stand the willows, alders, cottonwoods, red maples, and sycamores of the Lake Erie watershed.
Water brims with mystery in the old stories: monsters, mermaids, serpents, along with mysterious weapons and tools emerging from unknown depths. Newer tales claim giant caverns under Lake Erie house the alien mothership.
I cultivate my relationship with trees. I will request branches and twigs and buds for healing, and I want them freely given. I visit trees bringing rocks and herbs to set at their feet. Recognition of reciprocity. I don’t talk. Instead I sit and listen. I wait and watch. The forest is alive, but holds its breath until I settle myself into silence.
Then a squirrel waves its tail. Testing. Then a bird hops down to look and the squirrel scampers in search of nuts and acorns. A soft crunching of dry leaves betrays foraging deer.
I don’t know how I know that the tree gives freely, but I feel a subtle nudge to get on with it and I’ll clip away a few branches with care. No bad haircuts here. Then as the cold begins to settle into my fingers I’ll wander back to the house, knife ready to scrape the bark from the wood for healing brews and balms.
Stick Medicine 