The Cauldron Tree

Becoming friends with a Cottonwood in a Colorado suburb

Two years ago, we moved into a townhouse in the suburbs. Most of the homes we looked at had little green space around them. But this townhouse, unexpectedly, backed into a shared greenway, with a grassy hillside and a large Cottonwood tree straight back from our porch. Despite the turquoise cabinets (or perhaps because of them), we felt at home. For a while, the tree was merely part of the landscape, ubiquitous. Lovely.

Yet over time, the relationship began to change. My sons grew familiar with the large leaves, asking to be picked up so they could pull on their end and make the great branches dance. As an infant, my youngest would lie with me on a blanket, staring contentedly up at the swaying branches. Then, as a nine-month-old, he gleefully played with a fallen branch, the leaves tickling his outstretched fingers, his joy-open mouth trying to catch them. The trunk was the first hiding spot in a game of hide-and-seek. The shade of its branches was the preferred place to set up the t-ball.

When I needed a minute away from my desk, when I was still doing web design in the strange career-intermission period of early motherhood, I would take a cup of cacao to enjoy beneath its branches, my back pressed against its bark. Solid, rough, alive.

In our second spring here, the branches grew back lower. Many leaves were so low now that even my youngest, walking unsteadily beneath them, could touch them without stretching. I showed my oldest how, if you stood close to a branch and waited patiently, the tree would come caress your face. I began to talk to the tree, too. I wondered if she had grown this way on purpose. I thanked her, just in case.

Then, the landscapers came through. These new low branches impeded the path; they were impractical and wild-looking. I looked out one day to see the fresh wounds of the branches, trimmed back to a civilized height. My heart clenched, and tears welled. I felt my own impractical wildness as I went to her, hands outstretched. I told her how sorry I was for the bizarre humans who have forgotten how to duck, to walk around, to appreciate the brush of the leaves on their skin. And I thanked her, again. It’s the thought that counts, after all.

Later that summer, a hard rain pelted down a huge crop of branches and leaves, blanketing the ground in a strangely green autumn. One of the root formations formed a small pool of water— a cauldron. On impulse, I asked my oldest son if he’d like to do some magic with me. Together, we picked one of the leaves off the ground and whispered a wish into its veins. His mouth pressed the soft green flesh between his lips as he spoke. We dropped the leaves into the pool and picked up sticks to gently stir them into the water. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The sticks caught my youngest’s attention, and he joined us, grabbing one and splashing it excitedly into the water. He picked up a handful of leaves and added them to our soup.

It became a ritual. Each time it rained, we made wishes with the tree. So far, they’ve all come true. So now in moments of stress and heartbreak, of joy and hope, of exhaustion, of playfulness, of desperation, of celebration—I have begun to go to my friend, the tree.

This Christmas, I was given a book on local medicinal herbs, and the first entry I read was about Cottonwoods. It turns out that the sappy buds—the same ones that stuck to our feet each summer, the same ones that turned brilliant red in the first days of spring—it turns out that they are a potent medicine for pain relief, inflammation, and lung congestion.

It turns out that our tree can heal us, too.

Winter through early spring is the best season to collect buds, as whole branches fall generously from the tree thanks to the wind and the weight of snow. We begin to make a habit of gathering them whenever we are outside and create a satisfying ritual of filling mason jars with the sticky buds.

Right around the same time, I listened to an episode of the Fair Folk podcast, in which the brilliant Danica Boyce (also on Substack) shares about the deep relationship that European Pagans had with their trees. This relationship was so profound that in their efforts to convert the Pagans to Christianity, the crusaders would burn their sacred trees. In one painful blow, they would simultaneously sever the connection between the people and their land and prove that Christianity was righteous. For how, otherwise, could these powerful trees be taken down without retribution?

I hope my unnamed ancestors are rejoicing to see a tree held in reverence once more, reclaimed as friend, healer, and protector. Though now, I understand that we must protect the trees, too.

It’s January in Colorado, so, of course, I’ve been on Reddit, gleening from expert Rocky Mountain gardeners how to make more of my small patio space this year. In passing, I saw a comment about how often people assume that trees in the winter don’t need water— that in their dormancy, they are content to be dry—yet they get just as thirsty as we do in the arid cold.

So, I bring a cup of water to the tree and offer it to the cauldron. It isn’t completely dry— there is a residue of mud and cakey leaves that fills the base. The water shimmers, reflecting the grey winter sky. I make a wish—I think she likes to be helpful. I thank her for her medicine. I thank her for teaching me about being in relationship with the land.

The next day, a pile of branches has accumulated on top of the cauldron, each one abundant with gleaming buds. A treasure trove. An offering.