Why is my flute made of cypress?
Cypress: The Tree of Water and Resilience
Cypress has long been called a “tree of the water,” and for good reason. Its roots sink into swamps, wetlands, and floodplains, places many other trees would find hostile or impossible. Rather than being stunted by such an environment, cypress grows tall, straight, and enduring. Some reach heights of 120 feet or more, standing like guardians above the waters that once seemed capable of drowning them.
The symbolism is not hard to see. Like cypress, we are shaped by the waters we live in—our circumstances, our struggles, the emotional swamps we wade through. But cypress reminds us that difficulty is not limitation. What looks like adversity can become nourishment. The tree teaches us not to curse the swamp but to use it, to draw strength from what threatens to drown us.
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Cypress is also a wood of balance. It is classified as a softwood, yet it resists decay better than most hardwoods. It is gentle to the touch and workable in the hands of a craftsman, while still being among the most enduring woods in North America. There is an honesty in that paradox: soft does not mean weak. Tenderness and resilience are not opposites. A human being, especially one who has lived long and deep, knows this truth in their bones.
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Metaphysically, cypress is considered a wood of purification and transition. It has been used for centuries in rituals of mourning, not because it is sad but because it points to continuity beyond endings. The roots in the water, the trunk in the air, the reach toward the sky, all of it bridges worlds. To hold or play an instrument made of cypress is to touch that bridge. The sound it carries is less about sharp brilliance and more about fluid strength, like the calm confidence of a river that knows where it is headed.
There is another layer to consider: toxicity, or rather, the lack of it. Cypress is one of the least toxic woods in North America. It reminds us that true strength does not poison the environment around it. Growth at the expense of others is not greatness. Real magnificence is when you can rise high and still be safe for others to breathe near you.
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Finally, consider the body itself. We are mostly water. Cypress is literally a tree of water, living in it, drawing from it, and growing beyond it. To play a cypress flute is to remember that your breath, your water-laden breath, meets the breath of the tree. Two living waters join to become sound. That is not just music. That is testimony.
The teaching of cypress.
If you want cypress to teach you anything, it is this: stop making excuses about your swamp. You are water, and you are breath. You have the same potential for magnificent growth as the cypress standing tall in its wetland home. You can be soft without being weak, resilient without being toxic, rooted in hardship yet reaching toward the sky.
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The cypress does not pretend to be what it isn’t. It simply rises. That is the invitation it offers us: to grow magnificently, not in spite of the swamp but because of it.