Beech Trees

These smooth-barked trees only lightly dot our landscape, the gray of their skin broken by darker nodules where lower branches used to grow. Our trees are relatively young, some planted by the previous owner of the camp along our access drive. Further to the south, in Indiana, they are much more common and can reach the ripe old age of 300.  Their canopy is dense, their nuts a fall favorite for the wildlife.

In Europe, immense beech tree forests were a place of darkness and mystery.  They were often thought to shelter fairies (not the little Tinkerbell sort, mind you).  The forked branches were used by diviners to find water, and its leaves were boiled and applied as a poultice to reduce swelling. In the early spring, the leaves of the beech are edible, as well as the nuts in the autumn.

The tradition of Druidry names the Beech Queen and Oak King as the symbol-laden trees who hold court over the ancient forests. People carried pieces of bark for good luck, and the nuts were thought to impart wisdom and the blessings of relationship between individuals and clans.

Arborglyphs (writing on trees, particularly beech) show up in mythology—Helen of Troy wrote the name of her lover on a beech tree and in Celtic mythology, it is the patron of writers.  Some trace the beginnings of European writing to paper made of thin slices of the tree’s bark. The Ogham Alphabet, the brainchild of Ogma of Ireland, was held to be scribed on beech bark as well. The Anglo-Saxons called the tree by the word “Boc” which later became our word “Book”.

Beech trees in our woods symbolize the mystery of a warrior’s strength to me.  I touch the smooth bark, so much like a dolphin reincarnated. Even when small, they exude a kind of stability and rootedness, as if nothing could harm or shift them. There is a sense of the guardian in them—holding space, watching, gray knights of the forest. As a writer, I am fascinated by the ancient mythology of the tree and while I type on plastic keys, I also continue to write in a journal by hand each day.  The rhythmic strokes of the pen moving over paper often tap into a different part of my brain, encouraging connections and urging introspection as well as daydreams. Handwriting is Mystery, as rich in magic as when that first alphabet was scraped into beech tree bark.

In midlife, I am aware of a gentle tension between abiding with life and active nurturing.  The beech bridges both gracefully, showering food upon the forest floor in the fall and hanging onto its leaves late into the season like an oak, helping to hold back the winter. It anchors to its center in the world and yet softly gives back to the life around it, an apt metaphor for a balanced life.

No need to write on your skin today;

shadows leave whisper-hints over soft gray,

And if I lean close,

feel my feet sink into leaf and dirt,

your roots will remember my passing-by.

In squirrel and deer,

you’ve shed your armor in sweet nutmeat,

and now you flicker,

tripping along branches

or hunkering quiet again in the cedar hillocks,

guardian tree

to motion

to earth again,

and I hear

and remember

in turn.