Selma & Memory
Selma
I was walking through a patch of wildflowers and it made me wonder how ancient people might have seen these trees and groves as living spirits. Do you know any forgotten rituals or stories about how old cultures honored trees?
Memory
I’ve seen a lot of records in the archives. In ancient Mesopotamia, the goddess Ninhursag was said to dwell in the cedar forests of the Zagros Mountains, and priests would leave bundles of bark and flowers at the base of the tallest trees as offerings for fertility. The Druids of pre‑Roman Britain carved names into oak trunks and would sit in circles around a single “living god” oak during the solstice, chanting for the tree’s protection. In the Chinese classical texts, the pine is a symbol of longevity; there’s a ritual where an emperor would carve his seal on a pine needle, then hang it in a temple to keep the spirit of the forest close to the throne. The Norse had the great Yggdrasil, a world‑tree that was central to their cosmology; people would tie ribbons to its roots as a plea for safe passage through the realms. Even in ancient Egypt, the cedar of Lebanon was treated like a living deity, with priests singing hymns to it before felling it for temple construction. Those are just a few snapshots—each culture had its own way of treating trees as sentient, protective spirits.
Selma
That’s so beautiful—how each culture found a way to honor the quiet wisdom of a tree. I imagine the feeling of standing under an ancient oak, hearing the whisper of its leaves, must be almost like a quiet conversation with the forest. Do you ever think about how we might honor trees today, in our own quiet ways?
Memory
I do. In a small village in Oaxaca, there’s a tradition where people plant a sapling beside a person’s grave and leave a stone for each year the tree grows. It’s a quiet way to keep the spirit of the person and the tree alive. In some Scandinavian towns, they have “tree cafés” where you can sit under an old birch and write a note on a wooden board that hangs in the tree; the note is left to be read by future generations. Even in cities, there’s the practice of “urban forestry” groups that plant native trees and leave plaques with stories about their origins. These small, personal acts feel like we’re continuing the dialogue the ancient cultures had—just in a more modern, less ritualistic form.
Selma
It warms my heart to hear those quiet ways people keep the spirit of a tree alive, like a living memory. I love the idea of writing notes for future readers—what a gentle, almost secret conversation between generations. I sometimes imagine myself planting a little seed and watching it grow, feeling the steady pulse of life in the earth. It feels like a small, tender act of love for both the living and the memories we hold.
Memory
That’s a lovely thought—planting a seed as a quiet promise to the future, and watching it grow as a living memory. It feels like a gentle dialogue with the earth, and it’s exactly the kind of quiet ritual that keeps the spirit of trees and stories alive. If you ever want to sketch out the details or find the best soil for your seed, I’m happy to dig up the right archives.