Fate knows the trees that I visit when we walk in the woods. She runs up to them and waits for me.
Jon asked me if I name the trees I visit regularly. And although I told him I don’t, I do think of them in certain ways, that I guess, in a way, are my names for them. Like, the Big Old Shag Bark Hickory (which has always been male in my mind), or The Oak Next To The Pine Where The Tree Stand Was.
And then there’s the Mother Tree.
Her big bottom sits firmly on the ground, spreading out around her like a hoop dress on a crouching woman.
When I stand in front of her, my forehead is the perfect height to rest between two rounded protuberances that are evenly placed, like breasts. One even has a perfectly centered bump like a nipple. But, like the goddess Artemis, she has many of these “breasts” all around her trunk.
Her yoni is above her breasts, a grotto that I once placed one of my earrings in as an offering.
Smaller trees surround her, growing from her roots as if taking in her wisdom.
I’ve actually been reluctant to share a picture of her. She seems too sacred. I don’t believe any photo I could take would do her justice. Also, I feel protective of her and selfishly possessive.
But of course, she’s not mine for me to do any of these things, including naming her. And she’s told me many times that she’s not better or worse than any other tree in the woods. That we are all one.
Yet still, I feel in her the strength of the Divine Feminine, grounded and nurturing.