Metamorphosis

• 

  close-up

• 

  far shot

Where I come from, trees don't reach heights above a two-story house. But on a walk here, I came across what I can only describe as the felled tree of life. It lay sideways on the forest floor, the open wound of the stump facing right towards the trail. I went up to it and traced my finger along the rings of its body, trying to date just how old this tree was. It's body seemed to stretch on for miles. I thought that in its living days it would have reached the heavens, and had I been there to see it I could've climbed up. In that moment I felt so much grief for this tree, that it would never reach the heights it had held for so long, it would no longer grow new rings. But on this stump were the most vibrant mushrooms I had ever seen in my life. It grew out of this dead wound with such a vigor I didn't think was possible, to be born from such death. But I figured, this was the tree's metamorphosis. Even though the tree was dead and lain to rest, it still lived on. It just happened to take on a much smaller, more colorful shape. The point of metamorphosis, I think, is not the ending state. In truth, metamorphosis never ends. It is a constant process, rebirth, it is ouroboros. Those mushrooms will one day die, or be eaten, or do something to cease to exist how I remember it, but they will not truly cease. They too will change, and live on through whatever form is taken next. This cross-stitch is my memory of the tree stump, with blue beading to represent the mushrooms.

Built With

• beading
• cross-stitching
• embroidery