Birthday of the Trees
Sunlight streams through a cedar branch hanging down, surrounding by other branches.
In honor of Tu B’Shvat, one of several Jewish New Years, I’m celebrating trees this week. I mean, I’m always celebrating trees (and hugging them, and kissing them - just ask my slightly embarrassed/slightly delighted kid). But this holiday is an extra special time to celebrate our dear, breath-giving neighbors, friends, and relatives - the trees!
There are so many incredible trees across the world - just look at these guys! Our beloved/beleaguered home planet is really an embarassment of riches (especially when you consider that it’s completely improbable that anything at all even exists), and it’s extra especially amazing that we get to/can only live on this planet full of trees!
For those of us living in this land colonially known as the Pacific Northwest, we are surrounded by beautiful and life-giving relatives, so I’ll share about someone close to home.
I have been thinking about names, how they function, and what
(and whose) purpose they serve.
For our other-than-human kin,
who does the naming?
Who speaks, who listens? What name is commonly used, and why?
And how would these beings name themselves, if at all?
A name can create, or denote, a relationship. Once I know your name, I have some small claim on you. Think of the fairy tales and myths in which a character discovers another’s name, and can then control the Other - or is released from their control.
Names allow for some ease, some familiarity -
but, also, perhaps, some disregard.
“Oh I know them - that’s ______” - and suddenly,
this being’s uniqueness, their deepest self, their connections,
relations, needs, desires, and fears collapse into a word -
one which they may or may not have chosen for themselves.
In Ursula Le Guin’s “She Unnames Them,” unasked-for names are removed from all the world’s beings, ultimately including the central character herself. Walking away, into the now unknown, she realizes:
“My words now must be as slow, new, and tentative as the steps
I took going down the path away from the house,
between the dark-branched, tall dancers,
motionless against the
winter shining.”
I think of a dark-branched, tall dancer that I love dearly, and the name I know them by - Western Redcedar.
… Where does this name come from? Who had the right to choose this name? What are the other, older names humans have used for this Tall Dancer kin?
And what name, if any, do these dancers call themselves?
As an uninvited guest here, I learn from the people that have
been in relationship with this place and these beings
far, far longer than I.
What names have they used for other-than-human kin?
And what do those names say, if anything,
about the relationships between human and Tree?
Here is what I have learned..
The name of the tree I know as Western Redcedar, is, in Lushootseed, x̌payʔac.
x̌payʔac is known as -
The Tree of Life
Long Life Maker
Grandmother Cedar
Rich Woman Maker
They offer shelter, comfort, medicine, and beauty,
to humans and to so many others.
Dearest x̌payʔac, here’s what I know (it’s not much): I know that you bring beauty and life to your human and other-than-human kin. I know that we have many names for you. Some have been lost to history (read: violence and pain), or are protected from the prying eyes of google.
I know that you stand within yourself, and with each other.
You once taught me that your name maps the web of relations and connections in which you stand: the place, the weather, the scents, your family, your companions, and all that surrounds you -
so much that I can’t begin to grasp.
You remind us that separateness is a silly delusion.
That when we speak of you, we speak of all that inhabit you,
and that you inhabit.
You eat sunlight and dirt,
and create this world in which we humans can live.
I know that you, like so many, are struggling.
The more time we spend together, intimacy, care,
and our sense of reciprocal responsibility builds.
We are reminded that caring for you is caring for ourselves, too.
Thank you for all the ways you weave us together.
