tHanKs for bEing (BeAmiNg) heRe
The usnea is frozen in form on the almost pulsing branches, the sap has flown a few times this spring--but remains halted on this bright and almost dripping day. It resembles the form of the start and stops of my creative practice. Maybe I should say: "What creative practice?" But trust me it's there; it is meandering through the snack trays, pretend play, and the way I (sometimes) fold the laundry. My form is fragile and resilient. The practice is here, as I write in a torqued position, all so my baby can, hopefully, stay asleep for an hour, for me to write this. I am home most days with my four-month-old and three-year-old. We sway in our winter rhythms, they are hard to hold, but I do feel the change coming. The postpartum period is always hard, along with simply being a stay-at-home parent, among the privileges that the position affords. It is a practice. A practice that requires more energy than I have most days, but truly leaves me so happily tired at each enduring dusk.
Beyond convincing myself I still have a creative practice or trying to understand that how I create will look nothing like that of my pre-covid and pre-child life. I imagine who that person was. I won’t dwell, but my definition of practice has changed. Well, my definition of living, thriving, and surviving has also changed. As the years of covid life progressed, I fondly looked back at this sweet time before the world started to drastically shift. But what I couldn’t see while this longing filled my brain, was the ever-approaching and secret rooting that was taking hold at my feet. I’ve long imagined myself as a fallen lichen looking and longing for a transition of life to pulse back into aliveness. But what I failed to notice was that among the groggy mornings and mental check-ins, was a slow awakening that resembles the sort of spring I live in now. Slow. The threads of myself have been entangled once again, but in a way that I can now make sense of. My body still recovers and works tirelessly feeding and holding the two littles. The sun is about the burst through the woods and I will feel my algal ancestors glimmer into my extremities. We move on; tending, changing, and recommitting to the practice of care every day. With our kids in tow, my lover and I wade through these seasons.
okay,usnea
I've long lived with an affinity for algae and the process of the photosynths of the water. Since moving away from the west coast, this affinity has been mostly satiated through old photos and journeys to Maine that are far and few between and to be honest, stress-inducing. Today though, like many other days and not like a lot of other days, I feel a different affair with usnea, hence you reading this right now. A rooted sense of belonging in a landscape I never imagined to inhabit. Coupled and gloriously enmeshed with my fungus-loving husband and our two fruiting bodies (babies actually). Sitting here and writing this feels like a radical acknowledgment of a new sense of self, rather than belonging to the isolated identity of my past. I’m calling this newsletter Early Oceans for so many reasons, and I vow never to perform singularity or the reason for anything really. But this time and space surrounded by new beings and woods of hanging usnea feels like a primordial world before things transform yet again. I also dare to venture into a space that can hold the capacity to share the complex transitions of self through parenting, climate change, grief, lament, and transformation. This will mostly follow an ebbing and free-form flow. A rhythm that exists in the cracks of the night, or the space-traveling screams, and the warmest milky smells of my babies as they roll over to snuggle in for their fourth nap of the day.
So, thanks for being here. I am excited to spend more time writing into this portal and musing about the natural sciences, birth, death, love, mental health, and whatever else I find enthralling.
May we transcend this coded world into real life, cheers
xx,
Savannah