The Soul of Trees

 “Trees have souls too.”

That simple sentence has lingered with me since childhood, passed down from my father as he guided me through the forests of my youth.

Back then, I would press my cheek against the trunk of a milkwood tree, watching its resin bleed out like silent tears. My father would say: “When a tree cries like this, it is in pain.” To a child’s heart, the tree was alive, tender, and vulnerable — a friend that could suffer, a companion whose wounds we ought to respect.

When Trees Speak

Across cultures, people have always sensed something sacred in trees. Among the Pako people of Vietnam, rituals honor the spirits of the forest, asking permission before cutting branches or clearing land. In Canada, scientists discovered that music — Mozart, Beethoven — helps flowers bloom faster, guiding them toward the light. Trees, too, seem to “listen,” swaying gently as if in conversation with the world around them.

When we look at trees, what we see is not just wood and leaves but memory. A tree carries time within its rings, whispers in its branches, and the quiet dignity of endurance.

A Memory of Loss

Not long ago, I passed by a great milkwood tree, one that had stood tall for decades, sheltering generations of children in its shade. But it had been uprooted, its trunk cut into segments, its branches severed, its roots exposed to the harsh air. What remained was only silence, and in that silence, grief.

Neighbors who had once gathered beneath its crown spoke of their sorrow. For them, the tree had been more than wood; it was a witness to their lives, a silent guardian of their joys and struggles. Now, with its absence, they felt as though a part of their own soul had been stripped away.

The Hidden Grief of Nature

We rarely think of trees as companions. Yet every time a tree falls, a piece of our shared world vanishes. A street without its old trees feels emptier, colder. A village without its sacred banyan seems adrift. And still, the loss often goes unnoticed, hidden behind the rush of progress.

But if we pause, if we listen, perhaps we might hear the murmur of the leaves, the sigh of the roots, the slow pulse of something alive — something that has been beside us all along.

A Gentle Plea

I do not know if the old milkwood I once loved will ever return. Perhaps it will sprout again from its roots, perhaps not. But I carry its memory as a reminder: that trees, too, have souls. They ache when wounded, rejoice when nourished, and linger in the heart of every place they stand guard over.

To honor them is to honor life itself.

Chatle

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