Axis Mundi

The World Tree: Humanity’s Axis of Heaven and Earth

Sometimes you can’t see the forest for them.

When I was a kid, I used to lie on my back under the pecan tree in our yard and stare up through the branches. It always seemed to me that the tree went on forever, the canopy stretching toward the sky like a green cathedral, the roots diving just as deep into the soil. Like a bridge between Heaven and Earth.

I didn’t know it then, but that feeling—that a tree could be more than a tree, that it might be a connection between worlds—is something humanity has carried with it for thousands of years. It’s a theme so common, it shows up in disparate and disconnected cultures worldwide. And because of that “coincidence,” it makes me wonder if perhaps my daydreaming was drawing on something a bit more ingrained in humanity than I might have expected.

I had a pecan tree in my yard.

The Norse had Yggdrasil, a great ash whose roots reached into the underworld and whose branches stretched into the heavens.

Mayan mythology had the Ceiba, planted at the center of the world, with four roots extending toward the corners of the cosmos.

In Hindu tradition, there’s the Ashvattha, a cosmic fig tree with its roots in the heavens and branches cascading down to earth.

Mythology, it seems, is a forest, filled with world trees.

The details shift from place to place, but the pattern is strikingly familiar: wherever humans mapped their cosmos, they drew a vertical axis—a connection between sky, earth, and the underworld.

The Center Mast of the Cosmos

Archaeologists and anthropologists call this concept the axis mundi—literally, “axis of the world.” It’s the cosmic pillar, the bridge between realms, and for many ancient cultures, the backbone of existence.

For the Norse, Yggdrasil wasn’t just symbolic. It held the Nine Realms in its branches and roots, from Asgard to Hel. It wasn’t just a tree—it was a whole ecosystem of myth.

The Norns tended its roots with water from the Well of Urd, weaving the fates of gods and men beneath its branches. At the top perched a great eagle, with a hawk between its eyes, while at the base the dragon Níðhöggr gnawed at its roots. Four stags roamed its limbs, nibbling leaves, and countless serpents slithered below. And then there was Ratatoskr, the squirrel—scurrying up and down the trunk, gleefully carrying insults between the eagle above and the dragon below.

Thus proving that squirrels have always been troublemakers.

In Mesoamerica, stelae and temple columns were carved to resemble trees, representing the sacred center where gods descended and mortals could climb. The sacred ceiba tree stood as the very axis of creation. The Maya pictured it with roots digging deep into the watery underworld of Xibalba, a massive trunk rising through the human world, and branches stretching high into the heavens where the gods dwelled.

Archaeologists have found stelae and temple columns carved to resemble this cosmic tree, and at sites like Palenque and Copán, kings were even depicted as embodiments of the world tree itself—living connectors between heaven and earth. The ceiba was often planted at the center of plazas, marking the spot where ritual ballgames were played and offerings were made, the crossroads of the divine and the mortal. For the Maya, the world tree wasn’t just myth; it was architecture, politics, and daily life, all rooted in a single powerful symbol.

Even in ancient China, myths tell of a mighty mulberry tree that served as the ladder of the sun. From its branches, the ten suns of early legend were said to rest, each taking turns to cross the sky on the back of a celestial crow.

At the base of this cosmic tree, shamans could climb in spirit to reach the heavens, bridging the mortal world with the realm of the divine. Archaeologists have uncovered bronze vessels and oracle bone inscriptions from the Shang and Zhou dynasties that hint at this imagery—trees with branching limbs crowned by sun disks, often paired with birds in flight.

Much like Yggdrasil or the Maya ceiba, the mulberry became more than a tree: it was the axis of the cosmos, the stage on which the rhythms of day and night, life and death, were played out.

Across cultures, the tree or pillar stood in the middle of the world, both literally and figuratively. Villages often placed their temples, totems, or central fires as the “world center”—a microcosm of this larger myth.

Myths that Hint at Truth

The archaeological record bears out this universal impulse.

At Göbekli Tepe in modern-day Turkey (c. 9600 BC), towering T-shaped pillars dominate the world’s earliest known temple. Some scholars suggest these weren’t just stylized humans but cosmic markers, standing as the “trees” of creation. One can hardly blame them for leaping to the conclusion—there’s a great deal of precedent.

The theme isn’t always as ancient as all that, however. Even in medieval Europe, church steeples and cathedral spires served the same symbolic function as the “world tree.” A pointed tower rising from the center of town was more than architecture; it was a statement that here, in this place, heaven and earth touched.

Archaeologists have also traced this instinct to the city plans of the ancient world. In Mesopotamia, ziggurats rose tier by tier toward the heavens, echoing the same cosmic ladder as Yggdrasil or the Maya ceiba. In Mesoamerica, pyramids were aligned with the cardinal directions, their summits functioning as ritual platforms where gods could descend and offerings could rise. Even the placement of hearths and communal fires in early villages often marked the symbolic “center of the world.”

These weren’t random design choices. They were humanity’s way of orienting itself in the universe—of staking a claim on sacred ground and saying, “Here is the axis. Here is where it all connects.”

Think of the tiny gap between Michelangelo’s Adam and God, in the Sistine Chapel, and you may make the connection. Humanity has forever been trying to bridge that gap. We’ve built towers, raised spires, and of course, grown trees, all in our effort to cross that tiny, infinite gulf.

The Tree at the Center of the World

So why trees?

Partly because by their very nature, trees are the natural bridges between the solid, stable soil of the earth under our feet—to which we are bound by the unseen force of gravity—and the ephemeral, constantly shifting world of the heavens. The kingdom always just beyond our reach. All around us, but somehow always unattainable.

Trees become the perfect symbol of all the existential angst. Their roots reach into the soil, disappearing into it and tapping the hidden world below. Their trunks rise through the human plane, offering shelter, food, and wood for fire. And their branches stretch into the sky, literally pointing toward the divine. Literally brushing the untouchable.

But there’s also some cultural psychology at work here: humans crave orientation.

We want to know where we stand in relation to the universe. And we sense, innately, that there’s a sort of in-betweenness to our reality. We stride over the ground below, which can often hide secrets we don’t even realize are there. We stroll under the heavens above, which contains vast and infinite secrets we may never realize exist. And here we are, in the middle. Mundane. Limited. Pretending at our own secrets, but really only keeping them from ourselves. We yearn for place. We yearn for significance.

The world tree is a way of saying, “Here we are, at the center of things. From this place, the cosmos connects.”

The Living Symbol

The world tree still echoes today. In art, literature, and even modern spirituality, the image of a tree linking realms endures. We find it in Tolkien’s White Tree of Gondor, in Marvel’s take on Yggdrasil, in Christmas trees strung with light, and even in the family tree that maps our ancestry back to primordial roots. We of the Christian faith have two trees, at the center of the garden of our own mythology. One of them cost us everything, while the other was taken from us.

No wonder we’re obsessed with the symbol.

Regardless of how the world tree shows up in a culture, it’s a reminder that while civilizations rise and fall, some symbols endure. The axis mundi is not just mythology or archaeology—it’s a living metaphor we continue to cultivate.

Life is the great tree. And we, merely branches.

A Note at the End

I’ve always had a love for trees that I can’t quite explain. Growing up in Wild Peach, Texas, I spent most of my non-school-days exploring the woods behind our house. And I climbed a lot of trees. You could hardly keep me out of them.

In my grandparents’ yard there was a dead pecan tree. Struck by lightning at some point, it had died a noble death. Its top had toppled, and had been cut and carted away. And the only thing remaining was a jagged trunk, around six feet tall. It was split on one side, and was as hollow as a well.

My cousins and I had an absolute blast playing in that hollowed-out tree. It was the closest thing I ever had to a play house. We would sit inside for hours, telling silly jokes and stories, and pretending. I’m not sure we were all pretending the same thing, but no one seemed to mind.

Years later, when Kara and I bought our first house, one of the things that sold me on it was the immense heritage oak in the front yard. I would sometimes just stand by that tree, place my palm on its trunk, and thank it. I’m not sure what for. Just for being, I think. I appreciated that it was there.

Over the years, whenever I’ve felt overwhelmed or anxious or afraid or sad, I’ve found myself looking for trees. Walks in the woods. Sitting on a park bench. Driving through a heavily wooded area. I particularly love standing still in the midst of trees and listening to the leaves rustle in the wind. Watching the tops sway in a breeze is meditation for me. It’s a call to prayer. A way for me to be assured, God is with me.

Our current home has only young trees in the yard, but we’re surrounded by stands of cedar and, not far from us, more of those oaks, a few pines, and a variety of others. I take walks daily, and it’s a real blessing to be near them.

The bridge between Heaven and Earth, for certain.

If you like the themes from this post, my novels explore them further

Comparative mythology is something I write about frequently. In fact, some of the mythologies I mentioned in this post, I first explored as part of my research for my novels. If you like this sort of thing, you’ll love those action-adventure, archaeological thrillers.

You can find them at https://kevintumlinson.com/books

If you like what you read, I always appreciate positive reviews on Amazon and elsewhere. And you can feel free to reach out to me here, too.

Clicking this tree transports you to a world of wonder.