Flora Arcana: Chronicles from the Gardeners of the Sixth Mass Extinction
SELECTION FROM ALCHEMILLA’S COLLECTED DIARIES
Friday Jan 13
Painting with pictures of the mind and of the soul. Today Lucid dreams instead of the usual nightmares. Real dreams, small pictures which I paint with pictures of the mind and of the soul. As if I carried in myself a supreme Artist who took all the science of painting to compose them so well that he makes them enter into the spirit, sometimes sorrowful, sometimes strong, sometimes possessed by an inspiration, in a quiet and peaceful state, as if on the edge of reverie without forgetting I had just made a dream which revealed to me the other life.
Note ___________ “Lucid dreams instead of the usual nightmares.” The entry for the night of January 13–14, 1924 was to become the turning point of Reich’s psychological and medical education. In this night, Reich’s fear of death nearly turned into mystic revelation. Two days later, on January 16, he made some drawings of these experiences, which he described in his journal, and which were reproduced in The Function of the Orgasm. They were the inspiration for his biomorphic shapes worn by his patients in vegetotherapy—a word Reich coined, which essentially treated the human being as a vegetal being, by immersing the therapy subjects in large tubs of water and guiding them through exercises comparable to those J. N. Basan said one should use when dealing with trees: “first loosen the earth around their roots, drain off the ground moisture, smooth the earth…”
Tue Jan 24
Slept fitfully this night and stayed in bed until noon. It’s dark and frosty, not even a check in the garden today. This period of suspension, in addition to being infinitely wise, is a period which rests and nourishes its roots to prepare for the season to come.
Told myself I should be more discerning.
Comparison of the name, no matter how precious it may be, is a crime against a union between the signifier and the signified. It is a denial of the richness of context, the invisibilization of the specifics in favour of generality.
Potential. The promise to provide. A place to be all things.
Language: the metonymic residue of our crimes. Absolute truth is a disease of language.
On February 3, Venus and Saturn are aligned in Capricorn, the home of serious tasks and enchanting secrets.
Lunar month of activity is sort of over, solar month of Great Beginnings begins.In the coming years there will be a growing call, locally and globally, to cultivate. For us who are planting and sowing in our magical garden, ‘this is only the beginning’, because we all have the capacity to discover the beautiful shiver that continues to happen in our minds and bodies. And when we enter this phase, magic arises. Magic as knowledge of the spirit. Magic as imagination. And from this space, we endeavour to green.
Tue Feb 7
Our work with the garden has been brutally punctuated stretches of fucking awful weather. Starting in January, it was frozen and unfrozen, melted, rained on, frozen, thawed, then rained on again. I’ve been reminded of winters spent with my family in my first years on this planet, the way each day took on a dank atmosphere of it never quite clearing up. In that constant state of damp clothes and dark clouds outside, we waited for spring to make an appearance.Once we are aware of the density of our own bodies and cease to take their existence for granted we enter a garden of mirrors. For every atom of so-called matter is a pool of images. Reality is a function of perspective. The fragmented appearance of things dissolves as we apprehend the images behind them. By this token, the world is one, for an image has no existence save in the image of which it is a part: each world mirrors every other. The hypnagogic state lies between waking and sleeping, and the details of our environment fade out as we begin to enter dreamtime. We share the same potential for creativity and enquiry, helping us to see that whoever we think we are, we have magical abilities hidden deep within.
Feb 18
I remember it should be a sunny day in February, when I will cut my garlic, daffodils, grape hyacinths and primroses from the ground, which had arrived timidly towards the end of this winter.
March 22
Today was the funeral of friend Aoto, who committed ritual suicide at sunrise in the woods with a friend for climate action. We talked about the meaning of rain and transcendence in his beliefs and his personal transformation. There was a light rain – I hadn’t seen rain hit the leaf in so long! Hearing about death from a change point of view resonated with me.
My hyacinths are already pushing toward the light, an iris showed its green leaves yesterday… and now rain and wind, hail, cold and such turmoil, it sends us all into the earth, there is nothing to be done, the Mother embraces and envelops us. We are so entangled in this force of nature, in the iris and the hyacinth – only a few puny shoots and a few leaves that cannot push themselves above the earth and can only peer at the world from underneath.
March 20
My first thought was the work with the vernal equinox and the need for extra-terrestrial energies to power our magic garden. Thinking of Agarthas or whatever meta-formations and other positive energy forms and elements that are supposed to lead us to a greener and more sensitive sowing.Instead of placing individual seeds into the earth by hand, as it was done traditionally, we use diatoms and magnetic material that have the shapes and forms of different alchemical processes – such as work with the Black Sun (the Earth spirit channeled by Paracelsus) to help find the seeds. Magically and literally, to get a feel for each other and sprout the right way. Something I myself enjoy in an anthroposophical club circle in which we help plant each other diatoms and now lactic acid bacteria3 into the hand vein. These processes of working on the medium- to micro-organic, invisible processes in the physical and spiritual space, lie at the heart of our magical project.
Fri April 8
In the act of gardening, there are many aspects at play but most important is the participation of the gardener and the landscape of the garden. Philosophical things such as ‘Hidden Nature’, purposefulness and synchronicity are universal principles we must take into consideration but it is ultimately the material present in its cyclical transformation, rebirth and decay, which is most active and determines the direction of any alchemical work. There is a need to conjure and commune with the spirit-mind of matter and to allow the transformative weathers to influence you as much as you influence them in a state of mutual dreaming.
My activities with the gardeners’ collective assume that garden can be seen as a metaphor for human life experience.The moon, sometimes still visible through the clouds, has just given birth to a hare. A stormy day, a lot of breaks between rain showers, swans moving apart in the lake.
June 4, the day was a scorcher here. It will disgust you. It’s been climbing to the magical by i and by that I mean a restless impatience, a felt joy of being, a striving towards the possible, a pressing bloom. As I retch and stretch my into my skin and sprint out of my skin and sprint out of my luscious green place.
June 5
A daydream about Mandragora and its wondrous powers
On those. Lazy. Hot afternoons
Mandrake with its wondrous powers
Lies next to each other in the shade of a big old cucumber tree
Drowsing and dreaming
In their green and lustrous leaves.
The lotus and the mandragora are both plants that appear to facilitate mystical experiences and dreamy states of consciousness.
The many-headed orchidThe garden will always be an archaic utopia. A promiscuous assemblage of creatures and tools, passions, poisons and necessities to survive in an arborescent order, like a matrix attempting to render the world hospitable. And the anarchist dream would be an orchard, a wild garden, an anarchic vegetable garden, free, joyful and productive – producing food and sharing common wealth. And the aspiration of an egalitarian, abundant, fertile world filled with plant life and herbal wisdom.
Saturday 10 June. The weather: slightly warm and sunny. Most things in the garden have settled down for the summer, but there is still a lot to do. Many freshly sown seeds need to be planted in small green pots and transplanted into plastic egg boxes once they have grown a little further.
A Sunday, 6 am. (June 19) I’m feverishly writing a morning poem; I have so many ideas and thoughts in my head that they are spilling onto the undulating lines of the poem, which I keep recopying.
I wake up again about 2:30 pm, after a long break for sleep this afternoon. I take the opportunity to attempt a cup of coffee, which I’ve been cutting out of my diet for the past two months in order to meditate again, as I did for almost six months last year, but I find myself having thought about the relationship between addiction and spirituality in the past few days. It’s interesting to think about what we crave on a spiritual level, as well as an addictive one.
June 22. And also it reminds me of Lovecraft’s famous mantra “the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown”, when you talk about the collective experience of repressed feelings about being-in-the-world.
Apparently it has now become so hot during the day that red-winged blackbirds can’t sleep at night and they go around their territory singing! They make this noisy music. The warmth at night makes me want to do the same thing! Make some music that emerges from the same impulses as the birds’.
June 28. I met Kristine S. We talked a lot about the cosmos, life and gardening. We touched many plants in her garden, the soapy silky leaves of the basil and the peppery green of the flowering fennel. I think of how interwoven the world is.
July 2. Slept most of the morning. Went out around 2 pm for a long walk till about 3:45 pm. Sat down for a moment next to a waterfall not far from our house and had a moment of communing with nature as well as accepting tasks from her.
(July is the month of Alchemilla in the herbal calendar).
July 5. This morning I didn’t know whether I had woken up or was still dreaming. At home in the jungle. I’ve never been more comfortable. I mean, we were outside the house. The sky was pierced by reeds and the glint of sunlight on water. I heard the sounds of monkeys – ten, twenty, a hundred! Now and then, the monotonous beating of a woodpecker, who looked for worms in the rotten of the thick leaves. The continuous screeching of parrots, as if they were locked into an aviary. They stay around our house. Behind me. I can hear the cracking of twigs and leaves. A snake glides through the undergrowth, past my feet. I don’t even look at him. My eyes are closed. I do nothing, but feel the wind on my face. My skin. The day is incredible. Magical. A giant, matted spider’s web interconnecting all beings in the world. The breeze goes through the spider’s web. A million butterflies scatter across a beautiful field.
August 8. I still can’t shake the strange dream I had during the storm. It has given me pause, a difficult awareness of the darkness within me, the despair I hide and deny. But this has unsettled me further. It’s not my despair; it’s other people’s. I can feel them, when I close my eyes and concentrate, a multitude, just out of reach. It’s as if they have come to me as if to a magnet. I can almost pull them closer, but in the end they slip away, into the shadows of the unknown. They sometimes send me pictures, strobes of their internal life, but never anything entire so I cannot identify them. I was walking toward the greenhouse and then I felt wind, but there was no wind, only the feeling of it. Dark clouds rolled in overhead, darker than any I have seen in our own sky, squirming masses of vaporous matter, heavy with a metallic smell. The shape of them was partly human, conforming in part to our understanding of that shape, but there were indistinct regions, bulges and folds of accumulated material.
Tues 6th Sept. Walking my thoughts around the garden in the rain thinking about the aesthetics of impermanence, the co-written dance of death in the garden, that life-death dance of all existence, this is the source of alchemy and animism, – our garden as a living book, that all life is in continuous dance with all that is non-living, soil, water, sunlight – and that gold is dug out of the ground and the green gold of sunlight – a balance of darkness and light at play in our bodies and that through all the cycles all is a continual motion towards perfection neither pushing rejection nor pulling attraction and that as we humans, imbued with consciousness and will, are made from star dust, we also move and evolve through consciousness, our sense of time, being aware that we live for a relatively short time (the embodied stream of participation, connected to the never ending earth cycles) – our wild and natural habitat, with its slow time, for the earth takes several billion years for the continuous changes – the wider perspective of time and that the mystery of our interconnectedness is that the smallest particle of matter constantly evolves from a different substance and carries within it the memories of all previous stuff and that the smallest particle of reality mirrors the vastest – the unlimited infinitude of the universe, an endless change of matter, I and all things slowly transforming, evolving and moving as evolving consciousness, side by side, into an unknown destiny – ourself working in our magical garden, as a member of our activist and magical-mystical gardening collective ‘The Gardeners of the Sixth Mass Extinction’.
Wed Sept 14. oh….the sun rose like a huge fire ball across the eastern ridge and lit up the whole garden. then the moon was rising dark and heavy in the cloud covered sky and it was my wish that the two were conjunct and equally potent and life giving. I am so lucky to have access to this paradise garden and even better that the property owner permits us to do some magical gardening here. I think the very few remaining large mature trees are a portal way to the other more mysterious other world, which we do every thing we can to preserve (or as some might say, ensure a longer transition period for the remaining masses of life on earth) my gardening companions refer to this hill as the Green Person, who provides an immense creative potential for the struggle of all of our lives towards evolution at some sort of a mid point between (y)our ultimate destruction and sea-change/turning of the wheel, after the onslaught of greed driven climate chaos.
Persistence of the vision (of a garden) in a dysfunctional organism. As a gardener who sees the possibility of new life in old things and the possibility of transformation in my own tissues, I found myself dreaming of a garden that is vast and tangled, organic and alive. I dreamt of an edge where a pathway leads finally to the revealed garden, a garden that harbors a multitude of stories and possibilities, gently pushing against the boundaries of the story.
Oct 17. Many paths may lead to the same goal, my soul’s wanderings – some erratic, some guided by the story of the world. My body is a vessel and my soul a passenger. Sometimes it shows more, sometimes less of its sublime aspirations, of its fears and hopes.
ON THE POINT
at your end
that you come to
hold still on that spot
where you come to
hold still
where you come to
hold still
where you come to
hold still with intent
where you come to
hold still with the whole of your body
where you come to
hold still with the whole of your body
where you come to
hold still with the whole of your body
where you come to
hold still with the whole of your body
and listen and listen without distraction –
into the space that opens
you come to
hold still with the whole of your body
and listen without distraction
and listen without distraction
and listen without distraction
and the space that opens
at your end
that you come to
hold still on that spot
the space that opens
Dec 21, Today the solar disc is at its nadir of the year. It is the longest night of the year, the solstice. We are bathed in darkness. It is freezing cold. I am grieving the loss of my ancestors, my ancestors’ ancestors, and the many other species that have gone extinct in the last year and held in my skin. Night has fallen, mourning coats. I am thinking of Frankenstein and the challenges of reassembling the tattered fragments into a beautiful composite. In a world of increasing and unprecedented change, it is a challenge to hold the anima and the personal in balance with the planetary. In ancient myth, there are divinities called Eirmos, whose purpose was to sing their chants on the darkest part of the year, and their job is to transform the chaotic nature of the ‘twilight zone’, from night through to the dawning, of the new year. I want to know if plants exist or are there entities (s) on the astral plane that can hold the strand of collective-struggle and global despair, of planetary-ecocide and ecological-apocalypse, and maintains it in the territory of wholeness.