Birch, from Indo-European bherja, or “bright.”  Shining, blazing, burning, shimmering.  The Lady of the Forest.  Cousin to Beech and Oak–the three trees I need most in my landscape.  Oak galls for ink,  beech and birch for paper, two for mast, and all three for inspiration.  The trio was seen as a family in Ireland: Father Oak, Mother Beech, and Birch their daughter.  Birches have eyes, and they seem to know so much.

We know the word is immensely old, because its name in so many languages is clearly descended from that Indo-European root: beith in Irish, bedwen in Welsh, bouleau in French, bjork in Icelandic, bhurja, or “paper” in Sanskrit,  betulla in Italian.

One of our oldest forms of paper, birch bark fights rot and mold, preserving both the tree and the words entrusted to its sloughed outer bark.  Birch products have long been used for leather-tanning in Russia, canoes and buckets in the Americas, as a fan or scourge in Finnish saunas, as an anti-inflammatory tea, as a self-shaping splint–wrap a broken arm in wet birch bark, and it will dry to a strong, reliable cast that releases its anti-inflammatory chemicals through the skin.  It’s the traditional May Pole tree, the haven and food for the larvae of many butterflies and moths, the flavoring to dozens of traditional, hallowed drinks.

My mother brought us this  betula nigra as a tiny sapling right after we bought our home, and watching it grow from a tiny twig to this strong, upright standard in our yard is a great source of joy to me.  It does practical things for us, like drink up some of the standing water that gathers in our yard, protecting our house and saving several of our other trees and plants from root rot.  It shades us.  It hosts birds and butterflies.  But it also seems to represent us so flatteringly–two trunks joined together, one a bit shorter, reaching upwards.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS