The smell of damp white oak filled my nose. Mosquitos swirled around. The sky was dark–threatening rain clouds, yet no rain. The air was heavy with restless, ambiguous humidity.

To be a piece of pine…quietly decomposing at the base of the tree it used to belong to… To be a pine needle, floating from up high, gracefully meeting the floor below… Bugs carved pathways and designs into pieces of rotting pine…transforming it into something else. Into art. Of some sort. Of the truest sort? A sincerity exists in the Pine Knoll. Leaves rustle, birds chirp, the cars on Central Street slowly become a part of the experience rather than detracting from it.

A melting occurs–a loss, a humbling fall, then a return to land under our feet. Though, Kristina told me that there really isn’t much difference between the branches and roots of trees…so what if there actually isn’t any distinction at all? No loss, no fall?

What if it’s just a flip? The roots as, essentially, upside-down branches…or, the branches, upside-down roots…?

It makes me think of time…we are at the end of our six-week internship…but it’s also just a flip of the beginning. The heavy, restlessness ambiguity in the air, was, perhaps, the embodied experience of the “flip”–I don’t want this internship to be over. A sadness lingered. But not a loss…just a flip? The end as the flip of the beginning. The beginning, the start of the end… or, the end as the start of the beginning?

No loss, just a flip. Welcoming the heavy uncertainty and restlessness with all the discomfort it brings. Grateful for the Pine Knoll, for the fallen branches, for the internship, for all that the flips will bring. Learning that I have space to hold it. There is a joy in that.

The sun was setting behind Jewett. I sat in the circular plot of grass in the Academic Quad, staring at a giant mushroom. Perplexed.

I attempted to form thoughts, but there always seemed to be something blocking…likely the notion of self…is it possible to let go of it?…how?

This mushroom…why? Questions that cannot be sufficiently answered. I sat, staring, brows knit, searching for peace in chaotic existence. Ceaseless questions. No rest…Unless…It’s all rest.

The mushroom.

Silent. Growing. Breathing.

Laughing?

Decaying.

… *some time later* …

There is a large mushroom growing at the base of hugging oaks…”Hen of the Wood”, it’s called. Apparently it’s edible.

It’s white and majestic. I want to know it.

Every time I see it, I want to hold it, understand it, become it.

But not really…then what do I want with it?

The curiosity…is it true? Is it sincere?

What is it doing there?

What am I doing here?

This week passed slowly, and yet it is gone. Towards the end of the week, I struggled greatly with my attitude…A grump set in, which I could not shake. I was unamused by most things in life, particularly unamused by myself. A deep exhaustion had set into my bones. On Thursday, my morning was packed with non-stop zoom meetings…By my third meeting before noon, I felt a humming irritation that vibrated my bones and made my teeth chatter. The worst part about being in that state during a zoom meeting, is you can see yourself…which results in greater irritation, towards oneself, for being such a grump.

Thankfully, the day eventually turned. Though, not before I was nearly hit by a speeding car on Washington Street as I was on my way to the salvage yard in the golf course. Biking carelessly, I shot out of the tiny opening in the wall by the college club, straight into the heart of Washington Street at peak busyness, without looking either way to check for cars. The man who almost hit me, slowed, rolled down his window, and asked what are you doing?, in a perplexed tone that intensified my irritation. I simply stared at him, eyebrows knit in unwarranted annoyance, and biked around the back of his car. I proceeded to bike down the service road to the salvage yard, stomach knotted in belligerence directed at life in general. His question stayed with me, what are you doing?…good question, sir, I regularly ask myself the same thing.

Once I reached the salvage yard, my eyes met the beautiful wood pile, and an ease permeated my prickly skin. A man pulled up in a golf-cart, and introduced himself as Grant, the Arborist. We had a meeting to discuss tree stumps. Grant’s joyful energy and readiness, lifted the haze of my grump, and I finally felt I could breathe…even smile. I chose a few pieces of salvaged White Oak. Grant said it had been taken down the day before from the Chapel. He started the chainsaw, and proceeded to cut magnificent stumps from the White Oak. The chainsaw sliced through the wood like a knife through butter, and a heavenly aroma filled my nose. Grant cheerfully brought the stumps to the Pine Knoll. Once the job was done, I arranged the stumps in a circle, and took a seat on one of the large ones, facing the setting sun. The stump was still moist, the smell of White Oak embraced me, and I was full of great gratitude for my new friend, Grant, who’s kindness made my day.

In the past six months or so, I’ve noticed a shift in how I see wood…it’s as if I’m really starting to see it. When I see a nice stick, or log, or tree stump, it really strikes me–my eyes soak in more than the projected image…something has changed, so now, I not only see the piece of wood, but I feel…what?…I feel something else entirely. Perhaps it’s the tree it was once a part of…Perhaps I was a tree in a past life…There is an embodied sensation I now experience which I do not understand, but wish to preserve.

When I go on walks with my friend, she always knows when I’ve sighted a “nice” stick–I get distracted from our conversation, diverge from the path, and I must go investigate. It’s a curious thing…this newfound fascination I have with wood. The beauty of wood confounds me–it is so powerful it overwhelms my mind and body. I hopelessly grasp to comprehend the spirit of trees, that which pulsates through living trees, as well as the latent spirit that lingers in the severed stumps. This new love feels primordial. I am seeing it for the first time, and yet the appreciation of the strength, spirit, compassion, and wisdom of trees feels ancient.

As I sat on a tree stump in the pine knoll, I wondered…I suppose I am sitting in the heart and body of the tree… I am actually “in” the tree, though time has passed, and it has been severed from its rooted source… the essence remains, and it is taking on new life. As I sat on the stump, I felt inexplicably grounded and at ease. The ever-present question this internship coaxes, arose yet again: how have I not noticed this before?

This week I felt a deep sense of peculiarity in regards to being a human creature in a world where my mind is trained to doubt my place and connection to all other living things. It’s a peculiar thing, to be a creature that thinks about their existence in relation to/separate from everything else. In the garden this week, a bumble bee buzzed behind my head for several minutes. I was in the midst of pondering my existence, which often transports me into a different world where I get lost…and when the buzzing continued and intensified behind my head, I had the fleeting thought that it was a ‘disturbance’ to my self-absorbed-getting-nowhere musings about my existence. After several more minutes of buzzing, I thought: this bumble bee’s buzzing is sleepy and relaxed…I doubt the bumble bee wonders why it’s a bumble bee…why it’s yellow and black, why it’s body is so large compared to its wings, why it isn’t so coordinated or aerodynamic. The bumble bee is just the bumble bee. Alive. Relaxed. Drinking it’s breakfast from the catmint flowers. Utterly unbothered by the details of its existence.

I found the bumble bee quite comforting–what would it be like to simply accept my place where I am, as a human creature, on this earth for a little while, unbothered by questions of why…that would be a relief. So, with that lesson, I ended the week with some time hanging upside down from a tree limb in the garden. The golden, amber wheat-like grass blew in the warm breeze, tickling the top of my head. The arm of the sycamore held me kindly. It’s time to change my perspective, and listen to the sounds of things that do not question.

I often wander the Botanic Gardens in search of spots to sit, watch the leaves on the trees, and write. Lately, I have been drawn to a grove of Eastern Pines on a hill. I treasure the atmosphere of contained solitude and secrecy which the semi-circle of pines create…there is simultaneously a distance from the human world, and an absorption into the natural world, which I find intoxicating. This week, I explored the space with more intention–attempting to articulate the sense of security and ease I feel when embraced by the pine needle floor and ceiling. It takes me back to my first nature memory, when I crawled into a spherical bush at a playground, and had a deep sense of awe and joy, as if returning home.

This week, while wandering the garden, I came across an “L” shaped branch jutting from the side of a tree–it seemed to be asking me to lay on it. As I climbed on, laid back, my eyes glazed over as I watched the leaves of Sycamore and Oak trees sparkle and dance in the mid-day breeze, drenched in sunlight–it was stunning…unbelievable, actually. My eyes saw the site, but my mind could not fully comprehend the ecstatic life of the projection. I let it wash over me, trying not to think too hard. An indiscernible amount of time later, I wandered into the Pine grove. I decided to fashion a temporary seat for myself out of fallen branches (from a recent thunder storm), in order to limit the number of large ants that crawl up the legs of my pants then vanish–an occurrence I find quite disturbing. By criss-crossing two fairly large, bent branches, I created a sort of lattice sitting spot, raised off the ground by the curve of the branches. In this spot, I pondered: What is a fundamental part of human suffering today? I believe it is to be severed from the natural world, to forget our place in it, to be conditioned to become emotionally blind, apathetic, and separate. A tragedy of our time. I wonder if starting with my own return to nature, each of us returning to nature on our own, might be the start of healing ourselves within a broken society, which would expand to include relationships, and eventually the world?

I sat in the grove, beneath the ceiling of Pine needles, on a makeshift seat of branches, the Amtrak train barreled past, a light breeze rustled the green leaves of small oak trees, birds spoke to one another, mosquitos circled a beam of light, a solitary bee searched for its nest. This is the place, I thought. Full of gratitude.

“Lucky, this time and place, is chosen as my working place” -W.H. Auden

Hello! My name is Mika, and I am a rising Junior at Wellesley majoring in Religion and Architecture. I spend most of my free time gardening (currently I have been clear cutting crown vetch), attempting to teach myself woodworking (I love making spoons and butter knives), wandering through nature in search of secluded spots where I can sit quietly and soak in the scenery, running around the town in search of new trails, sitting in front of my window, drinking coffee, watching the breeze rustle the pine trees, and lastly, reading obscure texts on Zen Buddhism which leave me in a wonderfully paradoxical state of utter confusion and profound joy. 

During this internship, I hope to broaden and deepen my understanding of the Wellesley landscape and become more aware of my place and impact upon the natural community. It fascinates me how easy it is to forget our place in respect to our natural environments, when that is precisely where we get our nourishment and life force. Through this opportunity, I intend to cultivate deeper awareness and actively work to remember and take care of the vast intricacy of the natural world. Ultimately, I hope to consciously and harmoniously weave myself into it.