When Trees Fall

Not long ago, over a thousand trees were felled in inner Sydney to make way for an expansion of the motorway. It was a scene of devastation, one that many of us had been dreading, fighting and grieving. Entire groves gone, habitats disrupted, roots torn from the soil. It felt like a deep wound carved into the Earth.

I went to the site, heavy-hearted but needing to be there.

I sat with the trees, or rather, with what remained of them. In the silence that followed the machines, I asked: What can I do, other than write letters and advocate to the authorities? The answer came clear and strong - not from my mind, but from that deep place of knowing that comes when we really listen:

“Do your work as a Druid. Healing is needed.”

And so, I did.

With my mobile altar, sacred items and all the tools I carry for ceremony, I stepped into the role asked of me. Near the freshly cut stumps and torn soil, I laid out offerings of beauty and care, collected from my garden and neighbourhood: Lavender, Celtic Ivy, Ti Leaf, Fern, Hibiscus, Wild Strawberry. Symbols of peace. Of life continuing. Of reverence for what was and what might still be.

I performed a healing ceremony for the wounded place (click here to view)

There, among the Camphor trees that had been spared, I was not alone. A solitary Currawong watched from the branches, and two Magpies sang nearby. Their presence felt like quiet guardianship, like messengers reminding me that even amidst loss, the web of life still holds us. I was deeply moved by their calm witness.

I had actually been dreading returning to the site. The last time I left, I carried the grief of the place in my chest like a stone. But strangely, when I came this time, the land felt… not happy, not restored but accustomed. Settled in its knowing of what had passed. There was a stillness that I honoured. Acceptance, perhaps. Or resilience.

Since then, the local community has come alive with resistance. Voices raised. Banners hung. Letters sent. Petitions signed. People have come together, not to mourn in silence, but to act. So far, there’s been no reversal in the outcome. The culling has gone ahead and the excavation continues. But every act of protest, every witness, every plea to restore some green space back into this wounded landscape matters. There is so much beauty in this collective care.

On my way up to the site that day, a single eucalyptus branch fell gently across my path. I took it as an offering, an olive branch of the bush itself. A sign of peace. Of connection. Of shared sorrow and hope.

I gave thanks. I prayed for the return of the birds and insects, for healing of the soil, for regrowth, for rest, for the community, for those in despair, and those still fighting. I prayed for peace.

We may not have been able to stop the destruction this time, but the spirit of place, and the spirit of the people, are not broken. This is not the end.

Heddwch. Peace.

May what has fallen become the ground from which something sacred can rise.