The Song of the Birch Mother: A Midsummer Utiseta (part one)

by Serena Constance

In the heart of a Sussex birchwood, a night-long vigil becomes a portal to another realm. Join Serena, death doula, dreamer, seer and writer at Runesnroses, on a transformative journey as she encounters ancient spirits and sings amongst the trees. This is a tale of magic, ancestral connection, and the power of nature to awaken our deepest selves.

It is night, and the birds have stopped their evening chorus and bedded down until dawn. All except one. I am singing out into the warm summer air, thick and close, cloaked in its velvet breath. I stop and receive a response. I return the call. The bird replies. We engage in a conversation that seems to stretch long into the dark but is just a matter of minutes.

This exchange feels powerful, speaking in song to a feathered friend. Just before this waking night, I’d dreamed of the severed crow’s foot gripping my hand, its sharp claws tearing into my flesh, causing drops of blood to stain my dress. Dream crow reminds me of the crow that nearly landed on my head in my night sit on the Downs. This speaking bird is not a crow, but possibly a bird of prey. An owl hooted across the birch wood as I had settled in for the long night, in this utiseta. 

I have sat out before, for twelve hours, on a bronze age burial mound high on the South Downs, alone to face my fear of the wild man who might, at any point, overpower me. Thankfully, he did not show that night, although I was nearly bowled over by a golden-haired retriever who bounded across the hill at sunrise. The wild man has shown himself since, drunk and aggressive, terrorising three of us women and a child sitting around an orchard fire. However, the wild woman showed up to send him packing. No wild man so far this time. This sit is different. I am enclosed in a beautiful Sussex birch wood, on private land and not alone. There is the faint protective light of the basecamp fire flickering through the trees. I know there are others, a small group of eight of us, dotted about the tall birches. We had met twice before during the summer to navigate these woods, to sense the spirits of the place, and to ensure they were happy for us to sit with them.

I have taken care to choose a tree near the wood’s edge, as far as possible from the others. However, someone had come to sit a few trees behind me. At times during the night, I can see their flickering candle. I’m not sure who this person is, but it feels ok that they are near. 

My greatest concern is how I am going to keep awake until dawn. We had set up camp at four in the afternoon and sat around the fire, working with our intentions, seeing what the land might want from us in return. As the light began to fade, but before dusk had fully set in, we opened the utiseta in ceremony and crossed over the threshold lined with bunches of mugwort to aid our waking dream time. 

I greet the spirits of the wood as Great Pathwalker, a name given to me at our previous gathering here, the second of the three. We had worked in pairs to meditate on and gift each other's magical names. We were told if something shows up in the night and wants us to reveal our name, to use our magical name for protection. As Great Pathwalker, I walk with my ancestors alongside me, gathered together from the deep research I do, to know and understand their lives, their sorrows, their hardships and joy, and to remember them. I know I can call on certain individuals for protection. They have my back. I am not afraid as I step into the gloaming, creeping across the wood. 

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It is now nine pm and I settle into my camp by my chosen tree. I have set my intention and question for the sit. At our previous gathering, I had sat for a short period near this spot and had been given a beautiful woven dress and hooded cloak spun from silver spider silk. So light yet so strong. I was to wear it for protection. In return, its fairy makers asked that I sing to the trees, as they wished to be sung to. Song was to form part of my utiseta, since in its essence the utiseta consists of staff, seat, and song. I had my staff too, a worm-eaten, sea-washed, applewood staff gifted by the sea, whose name is Arrowen. My seat is padded out at the foot of the tree, with sheepskins, blankets and a stool. I have a set of cards and my runes as part of my magical toolkit. 

Darkness descends over the woods. The birch mother is also with me. She is the guardian of this wood and tells me she will reveal her name through the course of the night, but that I must be patient. I know she wants to hear my songs, so I began to sing. I sing the galdralag (Norse spell poem) that I had composed just that morning from the runes I had pulled on our last visit to the woods. Bjarka, Naudiz and Algiz. The dream I had on the utiseta eve was so powerful that it also needed to be incorporated. Before the crow’s foot had gripped my hand, I had tended to a dying hare, who had chosen me to be her death doula. 

I start to chant:

Burn brightly by the birch

My love, brave beauty beaming 

The hare’s last breath

Anchor in the ambered night 

my love, with ancestral awe

The crow's claw clinging 

Nightjar nomad, nature's needfire.

I speak aloud three times my question for the birch mother:

“What do my healed ancestors wish for me to bring into the world to help others heal their ancestral traumas? To help heal their ‘stuck’ ancestors?

I sit with my wardlockers, the guardian spirits which have chosen to accompany me on this utiseta. My white horse Crioch (old Gaelic for boundary) gifted by my great grandfather John Mitchell, a hard drinking, often harsh and difficult Glaswegian horse dealer known as Black Jack, and my raven. The white of the horse, the black of the raven, the red of my dress. The colours of alchemy. I slipped on my silver cloak and overdress and galloped off into the hills with raven flying at my side:

Crioch canters clearly 

Raven croaks sincerely 

I stand up, and sit down, I sing out, I shake my rattle. I cast my runes. I cry and laugh as the whole gamut of emotions rises up through me.  My life is flashing past me. I sing some more. On the hour, every hour, a bell sounds, or a drum beats. I had counted three rounds already when the wild man appears. But not in the form I feared most. He comes in the guise of both Odin and Cernunnos. They ask me my name, and I answer Great Pathwalker. They bring with them the sensuality of the woods, the Eros that hangs from the branches of the trees, is held in the soft moss that covers their trunks. The Eros that I had encountered on our first gathering at the beginning of June with our visit to the nearby arboretum planted with rare trees from around the world. All unseen eyes and the eyes of the birch trees are upon us, the wild men and me, as we dance together at the witching hour. I break out into a sweat and shed my red dress, careful to retain my silver one.

My eyelids are growing heavy, the woods are now silent; the silence becomes louder. Sleep wants to take me into her arms, so I shake my rattle. I stand up. I lie down. Don't lie down!  Still, I lie down just for a moment, that fatal moment when Sleep is at her strongest. I lose count of the bell’s hourly ringing and drumbeat. Now and again, I can see the flickering candle of the person sitting by the boundary close to me. I can see the stars twinkling amidst the canopy and the devil man's Starlink satellites gliding by. 

A blue mist creeps across the forest floor. Followed by a crackling that grows louder and louder, almost deafening. What is this strange sound? Is it the creatures of the wood waking up? Is it the trees speaking to one another? There is no wind so it's not the dancing of birch branches. The crackling continues for some time as the wood begins to soften with light. I read later that it may have been the sound of the trees reacting to changes in temperature. The hot summer night gives way to a cool dawn not yet kissed by the rays of the rising sun. 

The number nine is on my lips as the sound of the conch horn rings out l, signalling the end of the sit. The number nine and the name of the birch mother:

Song Weaver Sight Breather

We gather ourselves and emerge into the circle where the fire keepers are still tending the flames they have kept burning through the night. We break our fast and tell our stories wide-eyed with the magic of the previous nine hours. It turns out that no one had been sitting behind me with their flickering flame. No person in our group that is.

I speak the message that Song Weaver Sight Breather has given me.  

To find out what she said, read on.

Listen to the galdralag here 

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With heartfelt thanks to Andreas Kornevall and Lee Walther for providing the beautiful woods and space for our utiseta, and preparing and guiding us through the night and the previous two sessions, and for the very hearty breakfast we ate. To my fellow travellers who sat beneath their chosen trees and shared their stories. To the Earthgod tomte who had shown himself to me and demanded butter which I dutifully offered. To the spirits of the wood - my fey gown and cloak makers, my animal guides and my ancestors who joined me. To the Allfather and to Cernunnos.  And most of all, to the great Birch Mother of this West Sussex wood. 

Serena Constance is a UK based writer, storyteller, poet, performer and community campaigner. She is also a Death Doula in training, a psychopomp and a rune reader. As a family historian, she works to heal ancestral storylines that hold past traumas. Her roots dig deep across far ranging landscapes, from the  Sussex South Downs to Dartmoor in Devon, from Glasgow to Iona in Scotland, from Cornwall to Ireland, through to Oslo, Norway and my Scandinavian heritage, and so much in between. 

By day, she is also an experienced communication specialist with a demonstrated history of working in the public relations and communications industry within higher education, finance, government and not-for-profit sectors. She is a member of the Chartered Institute of Public Relations in the UK.

Her website is www.runesnroses.com