Wild Women, Sacred Trees: A Gathering at a Natural Spring

There’s a quiet kind of power that emerges when women gather without pretence. No masks. No roles to uphold. Just the raw, unpolished wildness of soul-led women remembering who they are.

This month, our circle chose a copse at Staunton Gardens—a place older than memory, cradled by ancient trees and blessed with a natural spring. Sacred ground.

As we stepped into the grove, the air shifted. You could feel it—the presence of something older than us, yet deeply familiar. The Black Alders stood watch, guardians of protection and resilience, known in folklore for their connection to the underworld and healing. The Hornbeams offered quiet strength, their symbolism of perseverance wrapping around us like steady arms. White Willows, sacred to the moon and the mysteries of the feminine, whispered softness amidst the steady Oaks. And Hawthorn, the tree of the fae, pulsed with threshold energy—always reminding us that magic and reality are never separate.

Held within this living circle, we danced. We moved how our bodies needed to. Breathwork anchored us back to the body, while the wind itself seemed to rise, swirling around us—its voice wild and clear. Elen of the Ways walked beside us. If you know, you know.

At the spring, we harvested fresh water mint—the scent sharp, cleansing, alive. As we sipped the tea it became—a brew both earthy and cool—the land drank us in as much as we drank from it.

And just when you think nature cannot gift you more… a mother deer and her fawn emerged. Silent. Watchful. Witnessing. In that moment, it felt like even the wild creatures knew—something sacred was unfolding.

We closed the gathering with simple offerings—handmade tree decorations crafted from what the land gave us. Hung gently on branches in gratitude, not as adornment but as acknowledgement: thank you for holding us. For witnessing us. For reminding us.

We hugged a tree before we left. Our chests pressed to bark, breathing with the pulse of wood and sap.

This isn’t just ritual.

It’s a return.

To self. To earth. To the old ways that never really left.

This is what it means to walk the wild path, in sisterhood.

We’ll gather again next month.

But for now… the trees hold our stories.