Mirrors

The self as reflected co-becoming fungal networks

From primordial sea to shore, from arcane roots to towering behemoths. Single cells to networks. Foraging to factory farms. Following spores upwards to the heavens, digging deep with the mycelia. We have come so far, done so much, transformed by the earth as much as we have transformed it. It’s easy to feel lost in this grand scheme. To feel so insular and individual, consumed by the cult that is the self. Retreat into independence.

In the forest there is no self. Everything is dependent on and connected to everything else. Those primeval plant cells that swept from the waters without root systems made a pact with the fungi that had already made their home in the strange soil. The oldest testament: life is co-becoming. Fungi—mycorrhizal systems—extended the plants’ network. Fed them what they could only dream of reaching. Connected elder trees to their kin. Flowered and spread. The most alien of species is actually the most connected to the earth. The most essential to life.

Mushrooms are having a cultural moment right now. Especially in queer communities. Is it because they have endured for so long underground, only flowering momentarily to be questioned, plucked and consumed? Is it the inherent otherworldliness, the simultaneous glamor and inelegance? They can add flair or flavour. They can kill you in minutes. They can open your eyes to divinity. They are everywhere and connected to everything. I want to live like mycelium – deep, dirty, connected, electric, misunderstood and mysteriously alive. There is no solitary mushroom. And there is no solitary self.

Not even our bodies are alone. You’re home to tens of thousands of bacteria, fungi and other friends. You’re not a self, you’re a network. An ecosystem. A forest. As not-human as you are human. However you define “identity”—the knowledge that you are who you are—is shaped by relationships within and around you. Not being. Not even becoming, but co-becoming. Reflection and affirmation. The trees cannot be trees without fungal networks. Relationships between entities create identities. 

Maybe this is why I’ve always struggled with attaching an identity label to myself. They all feel too human. I’m a plant growing roots. I’m the fungi speaking to the trees. I’m the tree shedding its leaves. The leaves falling to the ground, drawn so heavily by gravity—that incessant lure—that I liquify whatever “self” there was into compost for the new to emerge. (If that’s not queer and trans, I don’t know what is.) The self isn’t solitary, it’s codependent and emergent. It’s trans-formation.

Before mirrors, we only saw ourselves in natural reflections—pools of water, metal, eyes of friends, families and lovers. We forget who we are because we’ve stopped looking in those places. In her book Mirrors in the Earth, herbalist Asia Suler writes: “Seeing ourselves in the mirror of the earth empowers us to take care of this place we call home and bring forth our gifts for the benefit of the whole. The earth is asking us to look to the trees, and the stones; because when we see ourselves reflected there, we become a part of everything once more.”

I’m looking into the earth’s mirror and matching its movements. Following the seasons, the inherent queerness. As the leaves fall, what do we need to let go of? What do we need to stay connected to in order to survive and thrive? We are not alone, we are not even selves. When we forget that we are the forest, the forest disappears. 

I’m posting this as I listen to Bjork’s new album. It’s very fungal.