An losÍc saileach uasal sruthán, fid deimin na nualan;
Beich na bèith an deol,
Miam caiach in cró caim.
The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his bloom bees are drinking,
all love the little shelter.
~ Excerpt, “The Song of the Forest Trees” from the Silva Gadelica (1)
Botanical name: Salix alba
(and about three hundred other species)
Family: Salix
Ogham: Saille
Scots Gaelic: Seilich
Irish Gaelic: Saileich
Welsh: Helyg
French: Saule
Message: Pay attention to what’s around you; there’s more going on than you think.
Quiet, rippling water. It’s one of the most soothing sounds you can experience. It isn’t so silent as to induce anxiety, nor is it so loud as to distract. The sound of quiet water invites us, in turn, to grow quiet. The water allows the mind to cease its scurrying, grow still, relax and expand.
And above the water, there will be willow leaves whispering.
The willow is a graceful tree. It retains its charm throughout its life, growing from lithe youth to aged and gracious dowager of the wood. Its down-hanging branches and wide, shallow root system by the water’s edge often conspire to create hidden seats, nooks and crannies custom-made for the protection of the contemplative, and the sharing of confidences. Under the willow tree, you have the peace and the time to look at the world as it truly is. And, perhaps, to look at your own soul as well.
It’s all too easy to become so wrapped up in your own thoughts, your own goals, your own views, that you stop seeing the world as it is and see it only as you expect it to be. Some people go through their entire life like this, seeing the world and all its happenings only as they impact it themselves. They’ve forgotten that they are only a part of a vast pattern. The willow is the tree of patterns: the patterns of leaves on water, the patterns in the notes of the harp, the patterns of weaving notes and weaving branches.
The willow, for its flexible durability, has always been a favorite for weaving. Willow branches have been used in the creation of all things in the pattern of a life: fences and baskets, cradles and caskets in Scotland and Ireland, (2) wattle and daub walls and fences in Britain. (3) Remains of willow woven walls have been found dating back to Neolithic times. (4) Wickerwork furniture is nearly as old. (5) The tree has woven itself even into our languages: the root words for willow, wicket, wicker, and wick (a rural English term for ‘pliable’ and often a synonym for ‘alive’ as it referenced bendable live twigs, still used in Yorkshire today) (6) is the Anglo-Saxon ‘wic,’ which translates directly as ‘to bend.’ It is also the root word of the English word ‘witch,’ which meant ‘one who bends, one who manipulates’. Linguistically, the work of a witch was, quite literally, the work of bending, changing, and creating patterns. This term may later have gained an entire wagon train of baggage, but at its linguistic root it simply meant, one who changes. One who bends. (7)
If you think about it, this is the greatest power–to be able to change the world around you, yes, but even more so to be flexible enough to change yourself: to see the patterns around you and bend with them. A person who can see clearly and think flexibly is one who can do well wherever they are. Those who can’t will suffer. It may be as simple as a nasty scare in traffic caused by your own inattention, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk while your mind was elsewhere, or it could be as terrible as the lie that eats you inside: the lie you’ve been told, the lie you’ve been telling yourself. Refusing to look the world in the eye and admit an unpleasant truth to yourself is perhaps the worst type of self-inflicted blindness, a toxic condition called in Irish an galar rúnach, a malady of secrets.
A great king once learned this truth, to his shame, and the willow tree taught him his lesson. In old Ireland, a physical imperfection was a sign that a king was unfit to rule, but that was nothing to the blemish of the lie on the soul of Labhraidh Loingseach. Brian O’Sullivan tells the tale like this:
Labhraidh Loingseach was said to have had horse’s ears. He kept this secret by growing his hair long, having it cut once a year and then putting the barber to death.
One day when a widow’s only son was chosen for the unpopular job of cutting the king’s hair, the widow begged the king not to kill him. Moved, Labhraidh Loingseach agreed on the condition that the barber never tell a living person of his secret.
The burden of the secret weighed so heavily on the widow’s son that after a time he took ill. On the advice of a druid, he released himself of the secret by whispering it into the bowl of a great willow. Divested of the burden, he soon became well again.
Sometime later, Labhraidh Loingseach’s harpist broke his instrument and made a new harp out of the very willow the widow’s son had passed the secret to. One night, during a great feast at Labhraidh Loingseach’s hall, he started to play and suddenly the harp sang:
Dá chluais chapaill ar Labhraidh Loingseach!
Two horse’s ears on Labhraidh Loingseach! (8)
As the story shows, a lie will sicken us, especially the one we tell ourselves, and the truth will not be denied. Someday, we will have to face it. Better to do so willingly than be forced into it, don’t you think?
It may have been the lilting sound of the willow’s leaves and the rippling water that inspired harpists in ancient Ireland to prefer it as the wood for their harps. (9) The soft sound of a harp is indeed kin to the sound of moving water: lilting, rolling, inviting thought and contemplation. True stillness and contemplation is something we sometimes lose track of in the modern world, but it was the cornerstone of knowledge among the Irish fili, the Welsh bardd, and their nobles as well. When asked what boyhood habits allowed him to grow into a splendid man, the great king Cormac Mac Art answered with this:
“Not hard to tell
I was a listener in woods
I was a gazer at stars
I was blind where secrets were concerned
I was silent in a wilderness
I was talkative among many” (10)
In the quiet, in gazing at the stars, in contemplation, you start seeing the things you’ve been missing. In spring you will notice the tiny willow flowers, which the bees have already found. You see the world around you for what it really is, not the blurred background your busy mind has made of it. You begin, if you sit still long enough, to notice things. And in paying attention, really paying attention, you may begin to learn.
Listen. The willow is whispering. If you’re quiet, you’ll hear the words.
“Sit still.
Calm down.
Now open your eyes.
See what’s really there. See it all.
Now. Keep your eyes open. Keep looking.
Don’t go back to sleep.”
- Silva gadelica (I.-XXXI.) : a collection of tales in Irish with extracts illustrating persons and places, O’Grady, Standish Hayes, Williams and Norgate, 1892
- A Druid’s Herbal of Sacred Tree Medicine, Hopman, Ellen, Destiny Books, 1994
- Prehistoric woodworking from the Somerset Levels: 2. Species selection and prehistoric woodlands, Orme, B. J., and Coles, J M., Somerset Levels Papers, vol. 11, pp. 7-24, 1985
- “Ancient wood, woodworking and wooden houses”, Coles, J.M., EuroREA, 3/2006
- Ancient Woodland. Its history, vegetation and uses in England, London, Rackham, O., Arnold, 1980
- “Willow – Beauty and Spiritual Presence” Ireland Calling: http://ireland-calling.com/celtic-mythology-willow-tree/
- Ortha nan Gàidheal: Carmina Gadelica, Carmichael, Alexander (ed.), Edinburgh Press, 2006
- Beara: Dark Legends, O’Sullivan, Brian, Irish Imbas Books, 2013
- Ogam: Weaving Word Wisdom, Laurie, Erynn Rowan, Megalithica Books, 2007
- The Counsels of Cormac: an Ancient Irish Guide to Leadership: a New Translation from the Original Old Irish; Cleary, Thomas, New York Doubleday, 2004