The April day that felt like summer. I took the boys for a walk in the woods. Sam wore sandals and dodged parts of the trail pooling with snowmelt. An older woman sat on a pine stump at the trailhead. Her back rested against the trunk, arms folded across her walking stick. Still as an owl.
“I’m just happy to be here,” she said, her head swiveling to meet my eyes. “I had a heart attack last week.”
She held her milky arms up for inspection. Bruises from the IVs and injection sites congregated in the creases. Her skin sagged. Her brown eyes wild.
“I came to sit with the mycelium,” she said. “It talks, you know.”
I do know.
Subterranean fungal networks stretch between trees, a fabric of living lace, linking the world above with the roots below. Mycelium help trees share. Resources like nutrients and water are passed through the networks to younger, smaller trees. Like parents at the dinner table. And when a tree dies, they tell each other through chemical warnings zipped between these same lines. But what is their language? How do they say it?
On one level, the signals are like computer machinery signaling through electrical pulses. Or a brain. Always talking to some part far away. Breathe. Move. Look. Smile. But do the signals sound like music or is the message more like a feeling? Tingles for disease. Warmth for food? What is the tempo of death? Does the mycelium listen to the conversations happening above and know when someone is suffering? Do they remember each other?
The old woman came to sit above the ground and watch the sun sparkle between the bare branches. She knows that inches beneath her feet there is life. Maybe that is something you think about when you were hours from joining the community underground?
I left the conversation earlier than I’d like to admit. She smiled knowingly and shooed me away.
“The boys are restless,” she said.
They don’t understand what a heart attack is. They don’t know they were talking to a woman who listened to a tightness in her chest. Who is pondering death. Who wants to know how much time she has. Who wonders about the mycelium and what it is saying. The boys just know that there is a trail in front of them. And it goes up.