the language of trees

well, we now know that trees are social creatures that communicate with each other in cooperative ways.  according to Suzanne Simard, author of Finding the Mother Tree, trees are linked to neighboring trees by an underground network of fungi that resembles the neural networks in the brain, she explains. in one study, Simard watched as a Douglas fir that had been injured by insects appeared to send chemical warning signals to a ponderosa pine growing nearby. the pine tree then produced defense enzymes to protect against the insect. “this was a breakthrough,” Simard says. the trees were sharing “information that actually is important to the health of the whole forest.” in addition to warning each other of danger, Simard says that trees have been known to share nutrients at critical times to keep each other healthy. she says the trees in a forest are often linked to each other via an older tree she calls a “mother” or “hub” tree.

this asemic writing is how i image the trees might be speaking to each other…one tiny pulse of information at a time.

living in a lightbox

a photo lightbox — also known as a light tent — is a box with translucent sides and a white backdrop. the box is intended to be empty so that you can place a product inside, take a photo, and get a result that has professional-quality lighting. here in minnesota, when we’ve had a fresh snowfall, and the sky is winter white, my whole world turns into an enormous soft white lightbox. in other words, for a few weeks every winter, i get gifted perfect lighting. this photo would have been particularly hard to make without perfect lighting. the white seed fluff would have been almost impossible to capture against a bright white background. one of the many perks of living in this brutiful (brutal + beautiful) frozen place.

winter milkwee

two moons

far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet…and its two ink-black moons.

lava beach rocks 

time, precious time

i am playing with some new ideas. it feels good to be excited again. last year was a hard year for me (and thereby for STILL), because i was knee deep in caregiving (which i did not mind) but it meant that my schedule was no longer mine, it was dependent on the schedules of others. fingers crossed, it appears i have a little reprieve for a bit. which means i can start being ambitious with STILL again. this photo is a teaser for one of my new ideas.

floating tissue paper

every year i dry about a dozen of these lilypad leaves. there are flotillas of them along the edge of our dock every summer.  but very few of them last into winter. they are incredibly fragile (and i am notoriously not careful). once dried, you soon realize they are essentially floating tissue paper, borrowing their structure from the surface tension of the water. so every year i dry them, and every year they fall apart in my hands the first time i pick them up. this year i got lucky, mostly because i was busy with caretaking and out of the studio a lot. so they survived my indelicate jostling. and i am glad they did. honestly, who knew what a beautiful earthy palette they had hidden beneath their summer swimsuit of chlorophyll green?

dried water lily leaves