Listening to the Land: A Tree Hugger’s Journal

I’m walking along a trail where red and white clover bloom along the path bordering Brandywine Creek. A red-eyed vireo warbles insistently from the trees above. Nearby, a wood thrush sings a flute-like, haunting melody. Across the river, a scarlet tanager declares his territory; though stunningly beautiful, he sounds like a robin with a sore throat. A cool breeze flows against my skin. As June moves toward Midsummer, the fields are lush with life. Turning away from the river and climbing a path up the hill, I pass fields of young corn not yet knee-high. The trees are in full leaf, vibrant and green. Above them, white clouds drift across a robin’s egg-blue sky. Damselflies share the trail with me, and twittering swallows swoop above my head.

I’ve walked this land through every season for over twenty years, and it has always felt sacred. Long before roads and houses, it was ancient woodland. It was the homeland of the Lenni Lenape, whose descendants remain connected to this region today. Later came colonial farms, nineteenth-century communities, and eventually the suburbs that now border these preserved lands. Yet despite all these changes, something endures. Every time I walk here, the land and its inhabitants, both seen and unseen, remind me. As Inclusive Heathens, many of us cherish honoring the spirits of the land, our ancestors, and holy beings. However, to genuinely connect with a place, we need to begin to understand the language spoken by all the beings who share it with us, both seen and unseen. This isn’t only about people's spoken language, though that’s important too. Learning the original names of rivers, hills, plants, and communities can strengthen our bond with the land. And there’s another, more subtle language of the land itself: birdsong, wind moving through leaves, the language of the seasons, tracks in the mud, blooming flowers, and returning migrations. Learning that language begins with attention.

Many of us find ourselves caught in what Buddhists sometimes call "monkey mind,” the constant chatter of plans, worries, distractions, and internal noise. The first step toward truly hearing the land is to learn to quiet that noise, creating space for peace and clarity. To do that, I become present using a walking meditation. I feel my steps on the earth, listen, and notice scents, sounds, movements, and the textures of grass and leaves as they brush against me. When I’m attentive, I begin to learn which birds are local and who’s passing through, what flowers are blooming now, when the deer graze and local foxes hunt, and how the land shares its rhythms and personalities. The land transforms from “scenery" into something more like a cherished friend, familiar and close like family.

I’m a big fan of trees. As a card-carrying tree hugger, I have a favorite spot along the Brandywine Creek Trail, a spectacular sycamore tree set back from the water. Its trunk is so huge that it would take three adults holding hands to wrap around it. Every time I visit, I pause. I say hello to the tree and ask for permission. I offer reverence for its age, beauty, and long life. Then I place my hands on its bark and rest my heart against the trunk. Some people may call this imagination. Others may call it spiritual communion. For me, the distinction matters less than the relationship itself.

Standing there, breathing slowly, I feel my heartbeat settle and become aware of the flow of sap and water within the tree, of the xylem and phloem carrying life upward and downward. Whether through spirit, biology, or both, there is a sense of meeting another consciousness and an ancient way of being. I give thanks. Afterward, I leave a small offering, such as a prayer of thanks or a little water from my bottle. It's an offering not only to the tree’s spirit but also to the spirits of the place, whether you call them landwights, plant devas, or something else, and to all the beings, seen and unseen, that call this place home.

Inclusive Heathenry invites us to foster relationships built on respect and understanding. Whether our ancestors have called this land home for thousands of years or we are newcomers, we all have the capacity to be kind neighbors. Let’s listen with open hearts, practice mindfulness, and show genuine respect. Over time, this openness will help us connect more deeply with the land’s unique language and share its story.