Wisdom of the mother oak
To all the mothers,
Wisdom of the Mother Oak is a tribute to your strength, love, and wisdom. Whether biological, adoptive, foster, stepmother, grandmother, spiritual, or a mother figure, motherhood comes in many forms, each equally special in its own beautiful way.
This tree holds a special place in my heart.
With her crooked branches, asymmetrical frame and irregular clumps of leaves. She is beautiful in her stoicism, damaged yet resilient. She lives on a slope in the field near my home, surrounded by other oaks, with a view of the windswept moor in the distance.
There is the unmistakable haunting call of the curlew, the soundtrack to this landscape. With a sense of hope, I notice that each year there are more. As a small flock, they stand together feeding in the boggy grassland, then take flight, their bubbling call a sign of renewal and comforting reminder that spring is here again.
My favourite oak in this field. I think I recognise a little bit of myself in her and that’s why. She’s tall and a bit creaky, weathered by the rain and sun, dark clouds that have given way to clear skies. Every year she is growing stronger and more accepting.
Whenever I sit and listen to her, I hear her wise words whisper back to me.
Today, I sit beneath this beautiful tree, her strong woody bark supporting my spine. I am held and comforted. I stroke her trunk, it is warm and feels alive. I want to get even closer so I stand and throw my arms around her, the circumference of her trunk so vast that my outstretched arms barely make an imprint.
A mother tree in this family of oaks.
There’s so much I want to ask her. What has she seen over the years? How many creatures have made a home in her trunk, branches and leaves? How much life has she supported? And what does she think of the way we treat her and her family of trees?
Today, as I rest my head on her bark, listening with every inch of my body. I ask her
“What lessons can you teach me?”
And she replies, her voice a little trembly at first, softly echoing amongst her swaying branches “Nourish your roots, where they are first planted shapes you, but remember that they shift and grow until they are in exactly the right place for you to flourish. We grow in response to our environment, the air, the prevailing wind, the soil and its nourishment.
.Just as you develop in response to the prevailing winds of your youth, when that wind direction changes it will often expose your vulnerability.”
Her voice continues, the tremor of the wind weaving through her words. “In those moments of exposure, when the winds feel harsh and the soil beneath you unsettled, there is a quiet power in surrender. You are no longer fighting to remain fixed in a place that no longer serves you, but learning to bend with grace. Vulnerability is not weakness; it is the rawness from which new growth emerges.”
“There is wisdom in the ebb and flow of life, in each season of change. The tree that withstands the fiercest storm is not the one that clings to what was, but the one that bends in harmony with what is. Your roots will shift. Your leaves will fall. But in that shifting, that letting go, new strength will rise.”
A tender silence fills the space between her words. “So, nourish your roots, yes. But allow the winds to teach you the dance of letting go and receiving. Only then can you bloom fully, as you were meant to”
Hanging on her every word, I ask, “I’ve often wondered—what do you think of humanity?”
She pauses, then replies with quiet certainty, “I would tell you this: Remember, your time on this beautiful earth is brief. I have watched generations come and go, their lives but a moment in my long existence. Use your time wisely.
Don’t impose yourself on the natural world, don’t scratch your initials in my bark, chop down my branches, or harvest my baby acorns as if your own, because they look pretty or because you wish to count them as yours.
Let me breathe, as you would want your children to breathe—clean, unpolluted air.
Think of your own acorns, your future. What do they need to thrive? What kind of world will you leave for them?"
Her voice, stronger, sonorous and more confident now, “I’d ask you to think about whether I will be here to see your boy grow up into a man or see his children in the years to come? Will they be able to sit beneath my canopy?
You may believe you are the wise ones, uncovering our world through science, research, AI, social media. With each discovery, you seem to understand more—yet we still carry a million secrets beyond your reach. Trust us with those mysteries, for we hold the answers, even if you have yet to realise their full significance.”
She continues, her words flowing like a melody, rising and falling with the rhythm of the swaying grass. “I cherish my broken branches; they are a part of me, woven into my story. I do not hide them. They are shelter and sustenance—for insects, fungi, mammals, birds—a thriving world I am honored to hold. They reveal my fragility, even as my roots run deep and strong. I know my vulnerability, know that one day you may choose to cut me down, as I have seen before in these fields, where lifetimes of growth and abundance were reduced to silence. Their voices still echo in the wind, lingering in the shadows of my memories.”
Where my branches have snapped in the wind, it’s shaped me, it’s moulded me into something unique. I’m not like the other trees and I don’t try to be. We each have our own personality. I feel so beautiful, my trunk wide and knobbly a shelter for my heart.
My craggy heart that still has so much love to give.”
Suddenly the wind dies down and I am aware of an enveloping silence.
“Above all I want to let you know that I’m a mother too, I understand.” She says, her voice creaky again. I place my hand firmly on her beautiful scratchy, deeply fissured bark. “Thank you” I say “you’ll never know how much you have helped me.” Blinking away my tears I kiss her goodbye and walk slowly up the hill towards home.
As I turn and take a final glance I see three curlews swirling across the field and my heart recognises their distinctive cry.
Maybe this is start of my spring, I think, a new chapter of my life.
Mother to mother, I feel seen.