In May, I wander in the forest.
The water is up to my shins as I wade through the vernal pools to reach a stump. The wood is saturated and soft. The remaining bark has a texture that makes me wonder if it was once an Ash, a tree quickly disappearing in these woods.
I improvise a structure of sticks, an exercise in ephemeral art. A moment of listening to the birds broadcasting their songs and the bubbles from my footsteps. It smells like earth, of leaves and grass baking in the sun spots. I wonder if a snapping turtle will emerge from the dark water I stand in.
With my stick creation standing, I wander once more. Wonder too. Curious as to the various stages of decay that lead to the Ash in the vernal pool.
I suppose the answers are all around us. Many decaying trees have various fungi, like shelf fungi, converting death into life again.
And the woodpeckers drum and drill in search of these ants.
In some of the stumps, I see tunnels created by carpenter ants.
Woodpeckers engineer their homes in decaying trees,
which become homes for other species to raise their young.
Even the trees who have fallen over and heavily decayed become homes, nutrients, and moisture for a diverse range of life.
In October, I wander in the forest.
I fully expected my stick structure to have crumbled.
But instead, I find that someone lives in it.
A spider builds it’s patterns across the sticks, making my work, our work, into functional art.
In my wandering, my wondering, my creating, my presence, I was oblivious to the fact
that I’m collaborating with a spider.
