Tree Parents

a story of timing, trust, and wet feet

Everything is in connection, if you are able to open to it.

Today has been one of those days. Parenting a neurodivergent child through trauma on top of crisis; too many difficult things at once and everything falls apart. Then, at my wit’s end, I find the trees and they sing me back home. Let me tell you the story, in the hopes that it inspires your connection to something larger than yourself, and lends you the courage of Mother Earth when yours is failing.

In need of medicine

My morning starts at 7am when, as soon as my eyes open and my mind registers consciousness, I hear my younger son calling for my help. He wants to change the plaster on his finger, and needs my handmade First Aid Salve; ‘I’ve taken the old plaster off and I’ve washed it, Mum. It stings. I need the balm.’ I’ve been making this medicine for a few years, but we are down to our last personal jar and I haven’t been able to restock it for selling in 3 seasons, as there hasn’t been the abundance of Pine Sap to harvest that there has been in previous years. I don’t know whether this is due to drought, to changing climate, or if it is just the way of things. Perhaps the medicine hasn’t been as needed, but today it is needed, not just for the antibacterial sap and blood-staunching Yarrow, but for the simple fact that it is made by his Mum and therefore has magical properties.

Challenges that face us

He and I, we are getting to grips with it all still. Though I have suspected neurodivergent traits in him and we’ve struggled with his behaviour/emotions/reactions for 4 years, it’s only been in the last year that we have talked about it, named it, learned things (alone and together as a family), made changes, and talked some more. We have no diagnosis, very little practical support, but this won’t be a surprise for you to hear, it’s happening all over. And now we are thrown into a new phase of life; he lost his other parent and we find ourselves, him and I, alone, in a way. On top of each other and each of us struggling to make sense of the world and the expectations put upon us. The day-to-day struggles of PDA were tested even further today as we navigated the impact of a cycling accident and I try to bring him to minor injuries to get an x-ray, something way out of routine and challenging for him. The extreme weather this week hasn’t helped, as we both fought to close the front door and walked through sideways rain to get there, and all of our interactions and conversations are peppered with him grappling with the situation, the grief, the change.

It takes it’s toll on me, the impact to my mental health being perhaps even greater than even I credit and notice, but I am very aware of my capacity and those moments before I trip over the edge and am overwhelmed. The constant narrative, questions, requests, complaints and criticisms are more than I can take and my head feels too full, the room too loud and the house too much like a prison. Desperately, after calling close friends, trying my meditation, breathing deeper, I relent and stomp out for a brisk walk around the golf course – something that seems like a last resort but might perhaps be the exact medicine required.

Medicine revealed

Apparently 47mph winds and hail in your face is actually a nice stroll outside compared to parenting in a crisis...of course my manic dark humour comes to the surface in the face of these stresses, but I’ve always genuinely enjoyed the rain and wind and being outdoors in all weathers. I often laugh out loud when I’m walking in the ‘worst’ weathers. Do you? Freezing rain isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but I suppose I do swim in the North Sea, so perhaps I’m more acclimatised (read: masochistic).

I felt lighter just standing at the top of the rise, just before the path curves down between golf….areas….the wind pushing strongly up from the East and the ocean. I turned my back and leant into it, feeling something so stabilising and yet alive and moving. I breathed deeper still, before returning to the path and wading through standing water on the grass. When my feet are wet anyway, I give up all notion of sensible pathways and take the child’s route – right through the middle. There is huge joy in it, and I recommend it. But the true medicine is still awaiting me, and calling me forward still. I move instinctively away from my habitual walk through the trees, knowing that Ash and Poplar are more prone than other trees to lose their branches in high winds, and not particularly inclined to set foot in the Infirmary again soon unless necessary. I squelch instead across the lawns and mowed areas, up and over the little contours until I see a group of older trees, and a very welcoming, friendly presence.

A friend waits

I walk to the Pine tree, a large specimen, not tall but broad and with lower branches like arms ready to embrace me and all of my troubles. I lean my wet forehead on her rain-soaked trunk and breathe in her scent mixed with petrichor; phytoncides are the airborne compounds of the Pine tree, the breathable particles of volatile oils released through the trees’ sap, needles and bark, and they are known to have so many healing qualities. Inhaling these phytoncides increases the number of special white blood cells in the body called T K cells, which fight cancer and viruses, and boost the immune system. These compounds also reduce cortisol, the stress hormone, improve respiratory function and open your airways to breathe easier. Perhaps this is why Pines are also said to help improve sleep and promote calm, as we know that breathing slower and deeper helps us soothe our nervous systems and induce relaxation.

Photo by Yosri Gam - my phone died before it managed to take a photo of the rain running down the Pine’s bark fissures!

I move my hands to her bark and internally thank this being for holding me, leaning more of my weight to her, physically and emotionally. Trees are wiser than even we have words for, I am sure of it. There is something otherwordly and mystical about them, inspiring us humans with awe and spiritual wonder whilst also providing for our physical needs for fire, shelter and food. Sarah Blondin taught me a beautiful lesson of sitting with trees, sharing her daily practice in 2024 of spending time of quiet listening for an hour each day with a tree. Her reflections on it are beautiful…watch this video to be inspired!

Photo by Hanna Lazar - I love this photo, it instantly makes me feel calm, small and safe.

I lean against the Pine and remember the song that travelled to me a few years ago, that I have been singing and sharing since, in circles both physical and symbolic, online and around campfires, in woodlands in different counties and to friends who don’t know each other, yet we are all joined by song, my me, by mycelium and soil and wind. I sing to the tree and feel the strong winds move her, move me. The whole trunk sways and twists in the gusts and I feel as if I am held by living, moving arms (which of course I am). The movement of life, the pulsing of the Earth Mother, being rocked and soothed, and the loud wind making it safe for me to sing aloud without fear.

Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou.

Singing through the hard times

I adore the notion of singing through strife, but it isn’t an easy thing to come to, especially alone. When we do most of our parenting, working, creativity, life, separately. When we live through a lot of our emotions and inner challenges without other relatable human beings, we don’t have that community mind or that ease of sharing, the support of a village helping us process the good and the bad. But song is a vessel, an ancient and undeniable channel for emotion and story, for connection and communication, for energy transfer and transmutation. When we sing we turn our pain into something else, at least that’s how it feels to me. I won’t claim to be an expert or try to explain how or why, but I invite your thoughts on it and your curiosity in.

Bringing it back home

As I leave my guardian to tread a sodden path back to home and dry, I walk past another stand of younger, smaller Pine trees, and notice that the greenskeepers have pruned their lower branches all off. Some pretty unnecessary human intervention, probably for ease of mowing or just to make it look ‘tidy’, but it has a welcome side effect for me. I pray to the trees as I pass and tell them not to worry, I will keep an eye on their wounds, and in return may they create me some extra sap, to collect at some later date in the season? I’ll be able to make that batch of First Aid Salve that’s been on my mind for long months.

Sap is coming. Healing is coming. The medicine that we need is provided, in it’s right timing. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou.

If you’d like to learn more about Pine medicine, upgrade to my Wild Revival membership for £5 a month and read my last post, including a pdf download of Foraging Evergreens.

I’ll leave you with some lyrics from one of my favourite Olivia Fern songs. She’s a beautifully gifted folk singer from the Lake District, and you can find the song ‘Remember why you came’ on her website here.

‘Sing, even if your voice shakes. Dance, until your heart breaks open. What wants to come through you, call it in, remember why you came.’

Do join me in the comments to tell me if you’re a tree-leaner too.

Jo xxx