20 August 18 Chaga

The Forest holds mysteries. Unless one lives within the Forest’s boundaries, most of the beings and secrets remain unseen, unheard, hidden in lack of awareness. Yes, the Forest remains lovely when not intimating with its fierceness. One of the more unusual life form growing in the Forest has to be fungi, more commonly known as mushrooms. Although becoming more well known, the chaga fungus is difficult to find and even more difficult to sustainably harvest. On one level today’s poem speaks of this dark fungus; however, on another, searching for this mushroom parallels how some of us live our lives.

HUNTING FOR CHAGA

            Dark patch against white birch

                        outside soot-black and deep like a scaly stellar hole

                        inside moose-hide- yellow-brown

                        a birch pintoed with shadows but fungus-few named chaga

            White as paper birch, we grow upward toward the light

                        spattered with dark events and wounds

                        unfurling our bark as elders do

                        exposing peach-bright skin coming through

            When we age, our dark patches swell

                        Growing slowly silent, feeding the way to the final knell

The light’s mystery lies inside hidden 

                        the place we hope to abide beyond time stays forbidden

                        swathed deep within the black illusion

                        of a no sunrise emerging to conclusion

            

            Not every birch hosts the chaga

            Not every tree a birch can be

                        Likewise, sore few of us hold the mystery

                        and fewer still claim our truest history

Why look for chaga?

Why hike amid far birches?

Better to stay warm beside the hearth

Better to leave foraging to ones who walk the Forest earth

But the outbound call to chaga rings so strong

And the hunting can be either right or wrong

            Away foragers go to far white birches

            and the green-clattering leaflets’ song

Background
I first heard about chaga from a DNR Wildlife Manager. Of course, as a Forest denizen, I had to see for myself. Chaga is a fungus, a type of mushroom, but one that does not appear in the usual fairy-capped shape we think of. Chaga typically grows in very cold climates, so northwestern Minnesota qualifies as chaga territory. As more people become aware of chaga’s medicinal properties, the hunt is on, and not always in a sustainable way. Interestingly, chaga’s fungal conk almost always indicates decay within the tree which typically has undergone stress, wounding or both. The decay is usually slow. Sound anything like some of the difficulties of life? Do we grow our own conks? Perhaps, consider that since the tree decays from the inside out, and may break or fall during wind storms, we, too, symbolically may degenerate from within until one day the stress is too much and we break. Conversely, the claims about chaga’s medicinal benefits for humans range from slowing the aging process, to lowering cholesterol, to preventing/fighting cancer.

Exploration 1: Is it worth one’s time to seek out fungi? Why or why not?

Exploration 2: Profile the comparison of chaga hunting with the searches within our lives.

Exploration 3: When it comes to unsustainable practices, what is similar in harvesting chaga, and how we treat ourselves?

Your Monday Poet, Jack Pine Savage

Wannaska World 2018.08.20
As Otto made his way to the Beito-McDonnell Memorial Bridge*, enjoying the slow flow of the river making its way quietly through its banks, he considered the friend request from Izzi. Actually, he wasn’t at all sure that the request might not be someone’s prank – probably the B&B’s handiwork, he thought. But how could B&B possibly know about Izzi, the pseudo, scientist of the cosmos? No, couldn’t be him. Then, some incarnation of Wink? Even more unlikely, Otto decided. Only wishful thinking, since Otto had never heard Wink speak – not really.

Two river rats scurried along under the brush, as Otto percolated on Izzi’s genesis. If she actually existed, where did she come from, if not Oklahoma, and how did she acquire her cosmic knowledge, true or not? That most certainly qualified as half hoax and half wild imagination, but he needed more information before he decided. “Holy buckets!” Otto exclaimed under his breath. “I’m starting to believe she’s real!” Then he let go of all thought of Izzi’s origins and corporeality, as he arrived at the bridge.

Otto always felt a waft of warmth and wellbeing come over him at the bridge. Being a railway bridge and still in use, a person had to be careful to listen for the train’s whistle, and sometimes (the bridge being such an insignificant overpass) the engineer forgot to blow his horn. In that case, only the sound of approaching wheels on rails warned the bridge-crosser of impending death.

Anyway, Otto immediately recognized the source of the warmth – his absent father, Paul Pepperhorst whose last name his mother continued to cling to, just as she still counted the days since their marriage. Otto counted the years of his father’s disappearance, five in a row now, when Otto’s age had barely topped seven. He had only fine, clean memories of his dad, fat with long afternoons of fishing from this bridge and long walks through local fields and forests. But today, Otto brushed those memories aside as he hadn’t brought his rod and lures, and he didn’t feel like walking any farther.

It occurred to Otto that his father’s presence existed no more in reality than did Izzi’s, and now Wink’s, but a person might imagine anyway. His dad and Wink, yes, but Izzi? Her existence defied common sense. Otto brushed thoughts of her aside as well, his attention now on what he certainly heard behind him – the sound of panting.