Interdependence Day
Tethers to the present, tendrils for the future
When I arrived at the farm this morning to participate in the Interdependence Day Parade with all the young farm campers, I was eagerly told by the other camp counselors that two of our oyster mushroom buckets from early June were flush with fresh clusters. I started my day by sitting with the buckets in the still-cool mountain air as the kids trickled in, showing them the results of their efforts and an image of what to expect from the other incubating buckets. I even got to explain the difference between horizontal and vertical fruiting—how the movement of air and the availability of water and nutrients will impact the way that mushrooms emerge from their bodily vessels.
I loved hearing their spontaneous observations and questions, like how the horizontal fruits were bigger and looked like flowers, and how the heck did that big vertical cluster come out of that tiny hole in the side of the bucket?? I responded by saying I used to struggle to comprehend that, too, but that the mushrooms start out as such tiny little pins that they can come through even the tightest of openings, quickly swelling to the size we see them as now.
I then got to cook up these delectable lucky charms in the kitchen of the farm house while having a delightful coffee chat with darling Sophie and Kieran and Ruthie, Soph & Kieran visiting from the land of many, many lakes. Then I got to witness a water balloon fight, co-herd some grazing goats, help sweet Pepper as she finished crafting costumes with the campers, don my ol’ inky cap hat from four years ago, and walk in the parade/picnic procession to the park down the hill. There were many whimsical mushroom outfits in the bunch, and I felt so flattered and inspired by the abundant fungal enthusiasm.
By 12:30 pm I was in a major pain flare, my whole pelvic region inflamed, not to mention legs and ankles and lower back. Anxiety flashed in me, with fears of losing health insurance coverage… barely contained rage at the barbaric, systemic disposal of vibrant beings with beautiful, complex lives… here on Turtle Island and in Palestine and in so many other vulnerable places.
And, and, and! I came back to the present, to the farm, to the tiny hummingbird nest that Ruthie showed us. To the frisky furry goats, the smiling singing children, the crisp watermelon and tofu cucumber salad. To Barak’s booming parade-leader voice, the tired but content-looking parents in the mix. To darling Pepper rocking the flowy royal blue pants I gave her, exuberantly carrying the Amanita muscaria sculpture we made together. To my sweeeeet friendship with Sophie and how easily we can sync up with each other. To my breath, my growing ability to ask for help with tasks and sit down when I’m in pain. To the water filling my cells, the hopeful storm clouds over the mountain. To joy and gratitude and softness and protection of the sacred.
In the weekly breathwork class I attended in June at the Body-Based Mindfulness Center, we did a breathing exercise where we “imagined” that we were sharing breath with all photosynthetic organisms—“imagined” in quotes because, of course, it is a literal material exchange that happens incessantly, everywhere, and has since time immemorial. I connected not only with the steadfast stands of remaining rainforest, the Siberian taiga, and the precious seasonal and coniferous forests I know so well, but also the cyanobacteria, algae, kelp forests, and phytoplankton of the oceans. Inevitably, I also visualized the fungi breathing alongside me, taking in oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide, pulsing in tandem with plant roots and seeding clouds high in the atmosphere. What’s truly mystifying to me is that I (along with all oxygen breathers) am sending atoms of carbon back to the plants hundreds of thousands of times each day, effortlessly re-gifting the organic building blocks that they gift me when I eat them. No matter how much we have been conditioned to think otherwise, reciprocity is our inherent state of being.
We are making the future we need as a community, one interdependence day at a time. We fail, we fall short, we hurt each other, we repair, we grieve, we make medicines, we celebrate, we learn, we absorb and release, we teach and guide, we set limits, we nurture, we break down, we rebuild, we hibernate, we cook and clean and plan and budget, we dance, we holler at the moon, we laugh hysterically, we scream and shake, we are bombarded with illness and pain and oppression, surrounded by horrific violence, steeped in disconnection from ourselves and each other and the land, and we come back home. We will always come back. We will take care of each other no matter what. The earth will take care of us; the earth is us.
As Reggie Watts recently reminded me in a reflection that he shared, “There is nothing that authoritarian regimes can do to stop what love is capable of. They can do a lot of damage, they can create a lot of misery—but love is the most powerful force in the universe. Because it is what everything is made of.”
I wish for all of you that you may continue to experience loving earthly connection each day, and that you find the spiritual strength to send your yearning tendrils into the future, fed by ancestral wisdom from the past.
I am bringing my inner child on a journey to meet my elder self and all her friends, and we’re very much looking forward to the embodied bravery and peace that comes with relaxing into our divine birthright of belonging here, no matter what may come.
Sign up for the Fungal Kinship Collective (it’s free!), and/or
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Mush love, always,
Anna
a.k.a.
a lover and a fighter
a mycelium-tender
a land defender
an animist in awe
a humble holobiont
a wiggly lil’ worm
Anna Wermuth (she/her)
Ecologist, Facilitator, & Artist
Mycelial Entanglements, LLC
mycelialentanglements.com
@myceliumworm