Some days, I find it difficult to find a space for hope. Some days, I feel helpless when I hear about all the conflicts, environmental catastrophes and injustices in the world. I find myself thinking, why bother being hopeful? From here, it is a small step to sadness. At times like these, I like to visit an ancient holly tree in the Forest of Birse in Aberdeenshire.
At first sight, the tree might not suggest hope. It is tall with a broad canopy. Some of its branches have been battered and broken by storms and the many hands that have torn and snipped away its leaves and berries to make into festive wreaths. Like hope implies little certainty, it is far from certain how the tree has survived so long and how it continues to thrive. Yet it has withstood harsh weather conditions, recovered from damage and stood firm for many years. Each time I visit the tree, I look up into the branches and challenge myself to notice something new. On my last visit, I saw how the curvy prickles on the deep green leaves alternated in a repeating pattern between spines that jutted upwards and those that pointed downwards. Today, I can’t help but smile at the way the leaves, with their soft-vinyl sheen, reflect the winter sunlight.
I sit down on a dry, rustling carpet of old leathery leaves covered in silver insect trails, my back resting against the sturdy greyish-brown trunk. Beneath the tree, there is a pleasant earthy, woody smell. The bark is riddled with beetle burrows and makes a light rasping, breathy sound beneath my fingernails. A tangle of thick, twisted branches have fused and grown together around the trunk over the tree’s long lifetime. Amidst this tangle is a strange sight, a tiny, new tree growing within the tree, sometimes known as a ‘cuckoo tree.’ Wintering birds feed on the holly berries and sometimes their droppings catch in the bark and germinate to create a new tree. This is a hopeful sight, a small part of the future.
Overhead, the sunlight filtering through the oval-shaped leaves creates a sense of levity, due to the open arrangement of the branches and the shininess of the leaves reflecting the sunlight. There is something magical and cheerful about the way the jagged leaves crown clusters of plucky, plump red berries. They spark thoughts of better days to come, brighten my mood and seem to symbolise the tree’s resolve. It’s easy to imagine how, in the past, when people were troubled by dark winter days and fears of the unknown, the tree must have appeared as a miraculous sight. The Druids venerated holly trees because they kept the green life force of nature alive throughout the year and kept the earth beautiful when deciduous trees shed their leaves. Before the winter solstice, the Romans celebrated a festival called Saturnalia, which honoured Saturn, the god of farming and harvest. Wreaths of holly were used as decoration and sprigs of berries were given as gifts to friends as reminders that the world would not always be in darkness. Hope is like the sight of winter greenery; it keeps our spirits buoyant when life can feel withered and bare.
The Druids believed that the prickly leaves would snag evil spirits and prevent them from entering people’s homes or causing harm to the livestock. I take a deep breath…exhale and visualise my worries floating through the air and becoming snagged on the prickles. I imagine they might look like wisps of sheep’s wool or fragments of torn clothing snagged on a barbed wire fence. This experience leaves me feeling calm, lighter-hearted, as if my worries have been lifted, and a space opens up in my mind to allow an expectancy towards more positive outcomes. Imagination has a role to play in being hopeful; when I picture something like this kind of letting go, or envisage change or a different future, it feels like the very essence of hope.
The holly tree isn’t alone; it is part of a complicated web of alliances and kinships with other species in the forest. Blackbirds, fieldfares and thrushes nest in its branches. Toads and slow worms hibernate in the deep litter of dead leaves. In summer, it is home to insects and butterflies. Beneath the ground, the tree is connected to other trees and an unseen world of fungi. The tree is a reminder that we are not alone. Hope is a dynamic relationship with the world we inhabit, we can find strong sources of agency by connecting with nature, and with other people. I feel a sense of companionship with this tree. I am inspired by its longevity, strength and wisdom.
Hope can be soothing, but it isn’t passive. It isn’t wishful thinking; real hope requires energy, resilience and the ability to adapt. The tree seems to me to symbolise active hope. Like other species in nature, it isn’t passive in the face of the challenges it meets. Scientists have recently discovered that holly trees have the ability to adapt quickly to environmental changes like drought. They adapt in response to the threat of grazing animals by producing leaves with more prickles. When there is no threat from these animals, the tree produces leaves with smooth edges and no prickles. This ability to make rapid modifications gives grounds for optimism about the tree’s survival in a changing world.
In a humble, gentle way, the holly tree gestures an offer of mediation between me and the world, an impartial presence that gifts me the space to reflect and the courage to remain hopeful. By its very nature, the holly tree motivates me to feel less helpless and orientates my thoughts towards hope, regardless of any limitations.