I watch my neighbor Mary’s mountain ash tree like a hawk. Or more accurately, like a magpie, a robin, a cedar waxwing, though I’m not scouting a meal. Rather leaning into the elusive magic of changing seasons. Trusting in the protection against witchcraft and enchantment that the tree has promised across time.
For the English, it’s a rowan tree with a pedigree that reaches back to Greek mythology and Norse legend. A tree the druids credited with protecting the dead and the living from dark spirits. Of sheltering those beneath its boughs from nightmares and evil. Of saving lost travelers. Its spring white berries, symbols of femininity, birth and life. In summer and fall, its leaves, eagle feathers; its berries, droplets of blood. Its sturdy wood the tablet on which runes (rowans?) were inscribed. The tiny pentagram of each berry, each singular fruit, further evidence of the tree’s power to safeguard. A portal tree—to ward off malevolence.
For my neighbor, the mountain ash is nothing but nuisance. A feeding and pooping station for flocks of hungry, rambunctious feathered visitors. Mary cannot keep her porch respectable. We all contend with the thud of drunken waxwings swooping into our windows. I’m amazed how, when spring arrives and new leaves begin to show, the desiccated berries are largely gone. A seeming balance between supply and demand.
And through much of the summer, past the early white flower stage, I’m too busy enjoying our sweet warmth to track the tree’s changes. So for me, it is as if some early August morning, the rowan wakes up and says, “oh no, this isn’t going to last” and begins to paint its berries coral – and then orange – and then red. I’m certain that the metamorphosis is gradual. That there is no internal tree debate or decision that triggers color. But I read it that way—and begin my seasonal grief accordingly. My denial that moves ever so slowly into acknowledgement and assent.
Today, the leaves of Mary’s tree are green and the tree droops with the weight of its red berries. The deer have lightened its load just a bit, nibbling at what’s within reach. But haven’t made a dent in the heavier-than-usual fruit crop. As with all such symbols, that rich yield may mean a dreadful winter or a mild one—take your pick. Mine will be the latter.
So I accept, welcome, all the tree’s saving, protective graces. And I am granted one last gift. Before it goes dormant for the winter, before its berries ferment, the rowan’s leaves—those symbolic eagle feathers— turn a brilliant red-bronze. And Mary’s tree becomes a wild flame, throwing the last of the summer’s gold light into my home. Everything ordinary in my house turns to fire. Becomes an altar on which to worship the gods of life. The blaze that commands me to stand ready for what comes, to be thankful for what has been. A magic portal. ©
