Bringing The Forest Home
I feed my son, he sleeps with me. All night, I
am a source for him. To keep my separate
identity, I pump my breastmilk milk and use it
for my own means. Sometimes it's too much,
and I have to get away.
There is a forest 1.5 hours away by car. Just
far enough that I feel alone, but I can return
in one day to be with my son. This forest
burned twice in the last five years, in 2017
and 2020. I wanted to see myself in this
forest, to try and understand who I am now
that I feed another person with my body. Who
am I when I separate myself to this degree?
But instead of seeing myself, I saw the trees.
The mother trees, charred. Some blackened
and destroyed, feeding the earth. Some
oozing sap, healing themselves.
Their baby pinecones which sprout after fire.
As I crumbled charred pinecones in my hands,
I was drawn home again to my son. To a need
for balance, not in pulling away, but returning,
gathering space in to myself.
Being a person who goes away and returns.
I put a pinecone in his hand and invited him
into the circle.