A Willow’s Grief

by Lara Struckman

Fall trees of every hue sprawled out on either side of the empty road. Bon Iver played from the speakers, a melancholy soundtrack as Joady drove up north. Autumn always made Joady think of his grandfather whose grave he was visiting for the yearly ritual. “People are kinda like trees,” Joady thought. “Sometimes it feels like we’ve lost everything- sometimes we have- yet there is to some a beauty in the fall. We are obsessed with the fall, we even say ‘falling in love’ yet what happens when we hit the ground after that downward cascade? Is there just a splat as we come face to face with reality like a cold hard concrete slab?” In Joady’s case the fall came with the death of his grandfather and with him all his stories and Joady’s happiness. His grandfather was his tie to his heritage, his ancestry. Joady would sit with him for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Yet, a transmission of knowledge or stories always occurred. The way his grandfather, his Móraí in Irish, could sit and take in the world around him on his covered back porch was truly something to behold. He seemed to become one with the pine trees and moss covered chipmunk playgrounds in his backyard. He reminded Joady that we are part of nature, we’ve just forgotten, too many of us. Móraí hadn’t forgotten. He lived this truth every day and told old stories of the trees when Joady was little. Joady would stare newly captivated by every word and by every limb that swayed in the breeze, waiting to hear them whisper their songs into his own ear like they had his grandfather.  

He listened even now as row after row of alder, ash, and beech trees zoomed past as the wooded road ahead stretched onward to the spritely town of Connemara.  

Joady knew he was close when the trees started to sprawl out with thick vines that seemed to lead their way to the Gothic gray castles up on the rolling green hills. His grandfather told many stories about those hills and the magic they possessed. As a boy, his family lived up there and he and the wind would share stories. Joady pressed on past town towards where he would be staying for the night. He’d visit his grandfather’s grave in the morning after he got settled from the long drive.  

Joady followed the winding road lined on either side with forest. The forests here were dense, jungle-like with layers and layers of vegetation that seemed to create solid walls. Nothing like the smattering of trees he knew in the parks of Cork. He pulled up alongside a small entrance, if you could call it that, to the trees. He’d never been to this part of the woods before, but something told him to stop here. During these trips back to Connemara, Joady let his mind wander a little deeper into the unknown, the mystical. The line between what his rational mind would explain and what his heart and imagination could conjure became as blurry as the edge of the Moher cliff on a foggy Irish day.  

As he began to wade into the thick forest, he realized that somehow here the leaves were still lush and green unlike the myriad of autumn hues he passed on the drive up. The trees were snaked with thick vines and dense moss. It smelled of rich soil and rain as if this fertile place could give life to anything. As Joady picked his way through the brush and foliage he began to hear a soft whistling like the breeze rustling a small wind chime in the distance. It was a sweet melody not so far off from the ones his Móraí used to hum as he worked in his garden or went for walks. Joady let himself luxuriate in the luscious sights and sounds and smells of this swath of forest… until there was a loud SNAP! A large tree limb severed off from the trunk and crashed through the stories of leaves and branches below. The whistling stopped. Again, even in this place of eternal life, there was a fall. He realized then that upon closer inspection, the whole tree was dry and brittle- dead. The gentle whistle slowly resumed, but now it seemed a bit strained as if there was an obstruction in the lungs of the forest. Joady checked his watch and was surprised to realize that a whole hour had passed. He turned around and began to make his way back from where he came. Brushing strands of moss and spidery webs from his arms. He got back into the car and on the road towards the coast.  

He pulled up to the small white stucco cottage with a thatch roof overlooking the blustery coast. Sometimes, the fog would be so thick you couldn’t tell where the sky started and the cliff ended. Since his Móraí died, Joady had wanted to wander off the foggy cliff and just get swallowed up by the mist and seafoam, given back to the ceo, the sea.  

Joady got out of the car and his perpetual daydream and headed to the door. 

When he walked through the entry, he was greeted with a boisterous “fáilte!” by the woman he knew as Aunt Sheila who just happened to own the small inn. She grabbed him for a hug and helped him bring his things to his room. “Come down for supper in a bit,” she said as Joady settled into his room. He looked up and asked her, “Have you ever heard the trees whisper up on Dunguaire hill?” 

Aunt Sheila paused for a moment and replied, “Why yes, the trees have been quite sad of late though.”

“Why do you think that is,” Joady asked, awaiting her answer while he began to scan the spines of the old books lining the shelves.

Sheila sat on the bed with her hands folded in her lap, “The Great Forest is dying” she said, suddenly sober. Joady paused his scanning on a book titled, The Language of Leaves and Willow Bark and looked up to meet Sheila’s gaze.

“What do you mean it’s dying? Is anyone trying to help?” He thought of the dead tree he noticed in the forest earlier that day.

Sheila pushed her round glasses back up her nose, “Well you see, there were once a great many people who tended to the forest, your grandfather was one of them, and they brought great life and purpose to the woods. They nourished each other you see. Each year, more and more of them keep dying or giving up. There’s just too much forest to sing to. Many of us who know do what we can, we send blessings and offerings to the trees, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. There is one woman who can be heard serenading day and night like a siren near Dunguaire Castle. Her voice drifts through the water and lilts through the forest like a sad balm.” 

Joady took a breath and asked, “What is her name?”

“Willow,” she replied.

“Thank you Sheil- what’s for dinner tonight?”

Sheila’s face lit back up as she described the night’s hearty menu.  

The next morning, Joady woke with the sun smelling the salty sea breeze through the open window. This place has always felt like home to Joady. He recalled playing outside this very cottage as a kid with his parents and Móraí making bird calls and skipping rocks off the cliffs to see how long it took to hear the splash when they fell to the bottom. Joady rubbed his eyes and began to get dressed. He’d fallen asleep reading The Language of Leaves and Willow Bark. Luckily it was in English; it was a story of a young woman who was an herbalist up in the hills. She let the magic of the plants guide her and was able to heal anyone who came to see her, at least those who wanted to be healed. The plants taught her that in order for one to heal fully, they have to treat the heart in addition to the body. This place of the heart is where the real healing could occur. Joady planned to head up to the castle today and see if he could meet this Willow. He made some tea and toast for the road and plunged out into the early morning fog.  

On the winding drive up the hill, he began to replay the words his grandfather used to whisper to the trees. It became almost like a spell in his mind. He thought of the Great Forest, the life it was losing day by day. But this did not have to be fate. If there was a way he could help, he would. It felt like it was in a way bringing life and honor back to his grandfather. It had been 3 years since he died, but still Joady felt his influence. He finally rounded the last bend that led to the old castle. He switched off the engine and already began to hear a faint melody. As he approached the grounds of the stony castle, it grew louder and he realized it was the same whistling tune he heard in the forest the other day. Joady noticed that here too, many of the trees and plants still had their green lushness despite the dipping temperatures. He followed the stone path around the hill until he saw her sitting at a wooden table with baskets of flowers, reeds, and boughs. “Haigh,” Joady called out. To his surprise, she flashed him a simple smile that seemed so familiar, but the song echoed on as if it reverberated off the old gray stone walls of the castle behind them. He approached her bench and she invited him to sit.  She continued to weave the twigs and stems together as she spoke, “You look just like your grandfather; you must be Joady?” 

Joady smiled and replied, “Yes, you must be Willow, you knew my grandfather well?”

“Yes, we studied together many years ago. I taught him my songs, and he taught me how to weave. We were just children then, now this has become my life,” she gestured to the flowers and trees. 

Joady felt a closeness to this woman. She was warm and gentle, but unbelievably strong. “Do you know why the forest is dying?” he asked.

She paused her hands and turned to look at Joady, “because too many people have forgotten that we belong amongst the trees. We depend on them, and they depend on us.” 

Joady spent much of the afternoon with Willow, watching her weave and commune with the plants in her garden and in the untamed woods. He listened to her stories about the beings that lived there long ago and those who have stuck around. Her musings reminded him so much of his grandfather, but it didn’t make him sad. Instead, she gave him a new sense of purpose and vitality. He felt so at ease and lulled by her voice and the way her hands skillfully and lovingly turned pieces of bark and stems into baskets and rope and beautiful designs. She thanked him for visiting and taking an interest in the old ways, “We need more like you; your curiosity is so much like your grandfather’s” she said. Joady felt more than a little gratitude for this woman and her teachings. He could definitely see how she and his grandfather used to be friends. He smiled in thanks and bid his farewell to her, “You have taught me more than you realize; thank you.” 

He drove back away from the property that now had a sort of sprightly gleam to it in the waning late afternoon sunshine. After he stopped into the cottage inn for something to eat, he ventured back out again to fulfil the purpose of his visit: to go to his grandfather’s resting place. Joady wished to feel the last semblance of his presence and share his stories of Willow with him.  

He drove up towards the green hills where Móraí insisted he be buried, “given back to the earth," he said. The road curved sharply around the bends of the earth as the sun began its descent towards the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold. Joady pulled up alongside the gravel road leading to the cemetery. He knew exactly where his grandfather lay to rest, the far north side of the cemetery under the solemn weeping willow tree. It seemed fitting that even the trees cried at his loss. Joady sat beneath the tree, closed his eyes and began to steady his breath. He listened to the sway of the willow branches and leaves as he began to say a prayer of gratitude from his heart to his Móraí. It always felt like his Móraí was listening, like he used to when he was alive- gently nodding, mhhming, and using his bushy eyebrows to convey every emotion. This time though, it felt like his grandfather was responding. Softly whispering old Irish words into his ear. Except the words were not coming from outside of Joady, but within. Like his own inner voice, except Joady didn’t know old Irish. He snapped his eyes open with a start. Then came that sweet soft melody from the forest. He realized in this moment the trees were the ones talking to him, communicating in some ancient way through his own heart. He felt a small smile come to his lips with a chuckle. So that’s where he got all his stories from, Joady thought. He settled back down, closed his eyes again and took a deep breath further in and further down into his heart. The whispers started again. The voice was unlike anything he had ever heard before. He didn’t hear the words exactly, but somehow they flitted through his mind like fallen leaves swimming through the breeze, tumbling after each other. Slowly and surely, he let the words roll off his lips like a beloved song long forgotten. The more he allowed and listened, the louder and clearer the message became. He could feel his Móraí smiling in his grave. Joady knew what he needed to do. He whispered a quick Go raibh maith agat to his grandfather, Thank you, and dashed back to his car. 

Brenna Desborough is a senior majoring in art therapy and psychology and minoring in art history.

Lara Struckman is a senior public health major at Cedar Crest. She is a trauma-informed yoga and meditation instructor who guides others back to their natural rhythms and cycles of ease and resilience. Lara is deeply passionate about the environment and the state of our relationship with the Earth and our own nature. This inspires her writing, earth-based spirituality, and public health work that focuses on collective healing and whole community health.