The Linden Tree.

Linden trees have long held my attention. 

Eight years ago, I travelled to the eastern most edge of the Baltic Sea to deliver my father’s ashes (as promised) back to his homeland.  Nothing is as it was when he was born there, not even the name of the country.  It was a disorienting place that left me uncertain about his request, but the lindens leaned in and steadied me for the task.  They’d made it through war and all the changes it brought, and remembered him home with me. 

I didn’t know then that linden is the sacred tree of Laima, Baltic earth goddess whose name means, simply, ‘happiness’.  In Slovenia, There’s one linden who sprouted up around 1300, where politicians still gather annually for a national meeting, joining their voices with the nectar-drunk bees exalting over the sweet blossoms in song.  Old lore says one cannot tell a lie when questioned under the limbs of this tree; it’s heartening to imagine what might be possible if more powerful people met under a linden now and again.

 Now that I live in a place where they are abundant, here in the northeast of Turtle Island, I’ve been on the lookout. I found my first linden at the edge of a cemetery, a small one filled with mossy headstones marking colonizers and settlers, infants and elders, mostly from the 1800s. This tree stood silently at the edge, towering over and extending shoots from the base in every direction, as if extending a hand to each soul lost, with a special reach toward those not represented.  Trees are so friendly, especially these.  Linden’s very leaves inspired the classic heart image, and the blossoms and leaves gathered in a cup of tea welcome our hearts to soften and calm, leaving an inner strength.

 I began visiting other small cemeteries in search for linden, and sure enough, I suddenly see her everywhere, green hearts waving me over in the wind. In fact, linden seems to like to grow at the edge of any canopy, standing at the edge of these once forests, then pastures, now farm or maybe cemetery, linden silently offers softness to the pain this worked land once endured.

 There’s one tree in particular that I like the feel of, and visit often.  This tree I place my back against, these roots I align my feet with.  I look out on the land with linden’s view, hidden in the wild tangle of shoots.  Motherwort and nettle grow here too.  This trio offers safe council to stand inside of as the world spins wild. 

 From here, I listen to wild geese traversing the skies, heading south, but perhaps less far each year.  I look out and see the spindly, sick hemlocks, losing their footing here in their territory.  I smell something not quite like home – not like the California Bay and Redwood I dream about - but similar enough to tug on my heart and encourage a few tears to open my lungs and let the loss in.  I moved here not 5 seasons ago, seeking safety from my fire-y homeland.  I seek linden because I need my heart to stay soft and supple for all the grieving there is to do, all the turning towards suffering and loving this life anyway. When there is numbness, there is restriction – but we can’t afford to be numb right now.  This is a moment of extreme inflammation in our landscape, minds, and collective hearts.  Linden cools, softens, teaches yield. 

Laima is the goddess of fate, but she has no human likeness in the tattered threads of Baltic history, she is simply the ground we walk upon.  Our fate lies with the empty fields, the sinking headstones, the fevering landscape - standing with linden helps me grapple with mine.  Standing with linden, I remember my smallness, and the great possibility that we humans can only know a tiny thread of the vast web that the universe is.