8:07pm June 26, 2014

Swimming in marona.

I want to swim through the soil like most people swim through water.  I want to smell the roots of trees, the blankets of mycelium.  I want to feel the redwood sorrel pushing, pushing, pushing its way up out of the soil and into the light.  I want to drink the light through my leaves and then go back down to swimming, swimming, swimming in the soil.  I want to taste the decay of plant and animal matter, and, with the trees and the bacteria and the fungi, eat the resulting food.  I want to wander into a nurse log and feel trees sprouting up, then other trees sprouting from their branches in their fiery passion for creation.  I want to follow the trail of a banana slug and find them curled around each other in their strange little slug sex rituals — hopefully no penises getting bit off this time.  I want to find slime molds and mushrooms.  

But mostly I want to swim in the soil, be part of a silent but lively underground world of constant birth and death and rebirth.  A world that can be felt and smelled and tasted, but never seen and rarely heard.

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