When the Land Cries Out
Keening for the Wild Spirits
There is a kind of sorrow that doesn’t belong solely to the self. It comes from deeper places from the bones of the Earth, from roots ripped too soon from soil, from spirits whose voices are too often silenced beneath concrete and convenience.
I returned home from a recent trip to find my home changed.
This was not a natural change, like a forest softens into autumn. No, this was a wounding.
The owner of the property, without my knowing or consent, had gutted everything, flattened the green, scraped away the wild, and poisoned the soil. Plants I had quietly communed with, gone! Corners of the yard that once hummed with unseen life spirits I honored, animal messengers I greeted - all gone! The herb gardens I helped plant and cultivate were destroyed! Everything was gone!
The claim and reasoning behind this act were that the insurance company deemed the plants to be fire hazards, and everything had to go. Even the plants that are neatly growing in garden beds, well away from the house, were ripped out.
No, this wasn’t a manicured garden cultivated for aesthetic purposes according to the cultural standard; it was spiritual. Filled with useful plants and medicinal herbs that had quietly flourished for years were ripped out by the root, including some rare native species I’d been tending for three years. A large bush that served as a sanctuary for a returning family of gray catbirds was cut down without consideration for the urban wildlife living within. Every spring, this family of birds came, nesting, singing, raising their young within its branches. Their home is now gone. They will not return, because there is nothing left for them here.
I avoided the land for a few days after I returned because I could feel the profound loss that remained. My heart ached for the plants that once thrived. I was disgusted by the commercial poison that now lay on the ground. After a few days of coming to terms with the destruction, and when, finally, I stood where Motherwort and Jewel Weed once grew, when I stepped onto the scarred Earth, I wept. There was no controlling the flood of emotion.
I wailed, not just for the plants, but for the spirits that lived there. The Wild Spirits, guardians who hold ancient memories of place. The Fae who watched quietly from the edges. The plant devas who once sang with the breeze. They were gone and silenced. Liminal companions pushed out of their home, a home I helped create.
The grief didn’t just visit me; it was lodged in my chest, thick and unmoving. This experience wasn’t just a loss; it was a desecration. Nothing of these sacred gardens was left.
Grieving With the Land
In Celtic traditions, there is a sacred act called keening, a ritual wail of mourning that arises when words are not enough. It’s the voice of sorrow given full permission to move through the body. It is how our ancestors honored not only the dead, but the living grief that clings to loss.
Keening isn’t just for departed humans. It’s for the land and other sorrows we cannot name. It’s for the unseen. It’s for the rupture between what was and what’s been carelessly taken. And so, I Keened. Allowing the sorrow to flow through me. I went to the edge of what was left, bare soil, a few confused weeds, and let the sound move through me. I called out to the spirits who once guarded this space, not to summon them, but to acknowledge them. To say, I see you. I grieve with you. And in that lament, I remembered: The land is listening. Always.
“Nature is not an object; it is a being. It speaks in a language deeper than words.”
— Marko Pogačnik
Land Spirits, Plant Spirits, and the Fae: A Sacred Distinction
Often, we blur the lines between land spirits, plant spirits, and the Fae. While yes, they frequently overlap, they are not the same. Plant spirits are the consciousness of individual plants and plant families. They’re deeply attuned to healing, guidance, and the sacred reciprocity between humans and the green world. Land spirits are guardians of place. They are ancient, rooted in the soil, the stones, the waters. They remember what the land has witnessed, and they respond when that memory is disturbed. Most people call them nature spirits, but I call them Wild Spirits. They are not here to serve us or entertain us. They are free beings with their desires, work, and their timelines.
The Fae dwell at the thresholds. Not all are kind, not all are cruel. But all are worthy of respect. Many Fae guard wild places, and when those places are destroyed, they retreat or even retaliate.
“Fairies are not safe. They are not tame. They are not human, and they do not think or act like humans.”
— Morgan Daimler
When I wept, it was the whole of the Wild Spirits who stirred in my bones. When I cried, it was the Wild Spirits who pulled the wind through the remaining trees. And when I placed my hands on the bare ground, I waited to sense the spirits that once inhabited the land. There was silence. Their sacred retreat was evident. I often refer to plant spirits, elementals, land spirits, and Fae beings as Wild Spirits, not because they’re unruly, but because they are untamed, unaligned with human control, and deeply sovereign. They belong to no one. Yet they will walk beside you if you learn to listen. Wild Spirits include the soul of a tree, the guardian of a moss-covered glen, the conductors of mycelial networks, the whisper in the wind, or the flicker of firelight that speaks when you are alone. They include place spirits, ancestral groves, and dream-visiting animals. They are everywhere.
What It Means to Be in “Right Relationship”
If you are called to the witch’s path, especially as a Wild Witch, Hedge Witch, Green Witch, or a practitioner of animist craft, this is a massive part of our work. Not just honoring the beauty of the land, but grieving when it’s harmed. Speaking when others remain silent. Mourning aloud when the unseen suffer.
Sometimes we are asked to plant and restore.
Other times, we are asked to witness and wail.
Keening is not about fixing. It’s about acknowledging. It’s about reverence for what has been lost, and the spirits who still linger in the wounds. And as I sit with the land, this desolate, aching Earth. Even if I didn’t choose the damage, I can select the devotion that follows because this is what it means to love the land, not just in spring, but in sorrow.
Are You Listening, too?
If you’ve ever felt the land crying through you.
If you’ve ever wept at the edge of destruction.
If you’ve ever wanted to speak for the spirits but didn’t know how, you might find this helpful.
Know that you are not alone. And that your grief is sacred. Let it move through you. Let it rise. Let it root.
Because when we mourn the land, we remember our place within it.
Next Steps
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With rooted reverence,
Leandra Witchwood🌿
Witch • Wortcunner • Priestess • Herbal Mystic • Author
