The mycology of kindred

This one of those mornings where the sun is bright behind the fog, and the people spread out are extending their feelers in response. I took my cat Tiki Neale out around the side of the building on a bright yellow leash this morning, so he could sniff out all the smells in the fog. There were huge portobello style mushrooms blooming in the loamy bark, which didn’t excite him nearly as much as the possibility of slipping through the gap beneath the fence.

But those mushrooms reminded me of the vast network of spores lingering dormant in the soil, invisible until the conditions change and then springing forth in great abundance, popping up everywhere –

And in my mother’s wild garden, the root system from a maple stump hosted a great colony of fungi this fall. She was delighted, and spent hours out in the woods uncovering the old grown bones of a tree. Far off in the city, I like to think of her kneeling as the sun filters through the trees, with her hands in the dirt, communing beyond words in texture and smell.

There’s a page of notes from a book on Biophilia posted in Pages with some illuminating quotes, and Dale the neocappadocian sent along a poem in response to the I See a Darkness posting. Please scroll down to the comments to find it: and whether you like thinking of yourself as a mushroom or not, imagine the fecund possibilities.

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