
In her rooted determination and endurance through the changing seasons, in the stillness and supporting strength of her heartwood, in the up-flowing life force of her sapwood sending an earthy gratitude toward the sun and sky, in the circle of life represented by her growth rings, in the beautiful bounty of her flowers and fruit and in her spirit as an intelligent, wise elder on this living planet, there is much that a tree can teach us. And we might learn, if we quiet the human mind for a spell and open our hearts in wonder to the language of leaves.
How then would the dryad, or spirit of a tree, make a flute? This question has guided me since the beginning of my flute making journey. A quest ongoing and ever evolving, as every tree and each branch presents a unique challenge in the subtlties of finding her voice. Yet some answers have come in broad strokes. A dryad would keep the natural beauty and strength of the branch intact. A dryad would voice the flute clear and bright as a bird song. And a dryad would make the flute a magical home for her own continued habitation. Or so speak the trees to me.
So in a dryad flute -- in her unique shape, in her solid bore strength, in the beauty of her unsplit grain and growth rings, in the color and texture of her bark and wood, in the character of her knots or crevices, perhaps inlaid with crushed stone (a reminder of the rock and soil in which the tree sent her roots) and in the clear, sweet timbre of her voice, the spirit of the tree is invited to remain—enchanting the player into the natural world, inspiring a song from the essence of all life.
- Jon Sherman
