Tangled Histories
crinolines, meandering mold and soil covered hands
It’s all here.
I’m just trying to find it…
by smudging wet paper,
rubbing back and forth with dirty fingers,
by planting comfrey roots and watching them grow,
and by photographing the plant nurture the books who in turn nurture the soil nurturing the plant.
This cycle presents itself again and again, just on the other side of my lens - - a kaleidoscope of color, texture and tone, focused and framed.
Order from entropy,
attempting to structure chaos, my go to.
It’s a fool’s errand, but who can resist?
What happens, though, when I explore these roots and fibers, cultivating a more intimate connection?
Ancient histories, women in crinolines and men in suits tangled with mold and fungi more ancient than all of it and us.
Multi-legged bugs nourish themselves and find a home.
Seeds take root and a small plant sprouts.
A dog walks by and leaves its print on wrinkled pages.
And the mold, cells more ancient than all of it and us, making it clear that when we are gone, it will thrive.
Faces hidden and found, inspiring a conversation I’d never imagined when I first placed these books in this part of our garden. So far from my compost pile, yet it’s just the same, really, seeing beauty in unexpected places.
Is this what it means to open my heart to forces greater than myself?
Am I comfortable with this opportunity for beauty and growth on the other side of what I see?
Because mold is right there, just behind the surface, thriving in the fertile edge spaces between a book and its cover. And whether it’s the kind of mold that helps or hurts, it doesn’t matter. It’s there in all its vibrant glory.
The children’s book lays wide open for all to see, resting on eggshell-filled soil created from compost mixed with leaves and other detritus from the garden.
Layers and layers of tangled histories - - the stories contained in the books, the narrative of this garden library itself and then the ongoing conversation between me and this mold emerging in wondrous shapes, colors and patterns.
Faces hidden and found. Books, once stuck on shelves, come to life.
How many of us stay stuck in a place, assuming we have one job to do, when really, there’s an entirely different way of being that we just can’t imagine, because we haven’t tried.
My hands turn covers and pages revealing tangled narratives yet to be told.
Perhaps I shouldn’t disturb the processes at hand, but if I didn’t explore and literally get my hands dirty, how would any of this be here now, to share with whomever comes upon them in the cloud?
There’s love and loss, conquest and comfort. Our lives, a mixed palette made real when we pay attention and honor what is before us.
During this holy season,1 when winter turns to spring in the Northern Hemisphere, there is joy in the magic of light, color and the realness of existing at all.
And I’m finding it. Slowly. Carefully.
One photograph at a time.
Thank you for sharing this space and your time with me.
With gratitude for you being you,
Lyn
If any of this resonates, please share Tangled Histories with others. And, as always, if you have any reflections in response to what’s here, please share them!
It was during this season, years ago, that I first understood the depths of my relationship to compost and all that is beneath our feet. For me, hope and redemption lie in the compost pile and within a row of decomposing books in the garden. These processes predated all that humans invented and are now inviting us to rediscover their fundamental truths. I have no idea what those truths may be, but with camera in hand, I’m started to discover some of what ‘it’ is about.
Made me smile. Maybe I'll add some old music to my compost pile.