It quite irritated me, re-reading that I had called them “my” plants (in the previous photo journal post). Is that pronoun correct? Aren’t plants rather “ours”? Or don’t they belong to themselves?
Now I know plants can’t hear me. But we do breathe the same air and belong to the same soil.
Remember those moments of careless strolling? An art known as Flâneuserie in literature. I have enjoyed browsing through bookshops, bars or museums, practicing my collectioneuse habit of picking up postcards on my way. Nowadays I am practicing #stayhome, and suddenly the image of people in plastic container pops to my mind.
While making morning tea, I scan the sky through the kitchen window. I look at its blueness, the cloud shapes, I enjoy the light. Then I spot it. The heron’s morning route crosses my habitat. I squeak. A heron morning is a happy morning.
This morning a spider greeted me from the Tsing printout. I had gone to bed with her quote: “We are stuck with the problem of living despite economic and ecological ruination. Neither tales of progress nor of ruin tell us how to think about collaborative survival. It is time to pay attention to mushroom picking. Not that this will save us – but it might open our imaginations.”