Origin Story

The swamp is a place that is alive because it is mostly dead, and because of this, it is alive in an anomalous and special way. Swamps are a distinctly collaborative landscape, things break down and become other things in an endless dance. Still, there is also something mysterious about the swamp because we do not have access to the visibility of the cycles that take place within the dark water.



like a swamp
                Entangled


Growing up near the Everglades in South Florida you learn about the role of the landscape. The River of Grass once stretched from Lake Okeechobee all the way to The Florida Bay and operated as a slow and steady water filtration system. When the water arrives at the Bay, it has left deposits of nutrients behind as it flows into the estuaries. This system has been disrupted by residential homes, theme parks, big sugar, all causing the toxic algae blooms on the coasts. The water flowing out of the Okeechobee is laden with fertilizers that instead of being filtered, flow straight into the ocean causing nitrogen blooms that choke out the oxygen in the water.

Cycles
        of water


The swamp seems like anthesis to the paradise that is marketed as the Florida landscape, but in its own enigmatic way, it is beautiful. Turquoise water and bright flowers are absent, alternatively, the swamp has a calmer palette of varying greens and neutral tones. The swamp holds secrets and rich history, the swamp always remembers what it has taken in. In the ephemerality of the swamp, collectively life becomes eternal.


As I paddle on my Blue Kayak down a narrow split in River Bend Park, South Florida. I watch my paddle enter the black mirrored surface if the water, as I pull it towards me, the water swirls the painting of the plants inhabiting the bank. It is nauseating, but kayaking here makes you feel like you should be really quiet, moving slowly so as not to splash. I imagine that I am being watched as I float through the water by unseen creatures that are camouflaged under the glassy surface. The water feels as though it draws your attention inwards, almost as though in the suspension you can access emotional depths within yourself, trusting that they are supporting you.

I am making
            an image that feels like a swamp


On my grandma’s 90th birthday, my cousins and I journeyed to Everglades National Park for a swamp hike led by my scientist cousins Anna and Klara. We drove down a long lonely dirt road that from each side all that was visible was flat marshland, cypress trees, and heavy blue skies. We were dressed in windbreakers and drenched ourselves in bug repellent. When we arrived, the whole family hopped out of the car and we were instructed to take off our shoes. We were going barefoot. This was the way to go if you didn’t want to lose your shoes to the swamp muck. I remember feeling completely vulnerable to a world under the knee-high black water that shrouded my legs. The muck was cold as it wrapped around my feet, with each step I sunk a few inches deeper.


Unearthing and reburying
                                Footsteps


We walked to a cypress hammock that was alone in the water like an island. Although the Hammocks look like they sit above the water, they are water-filled depressions. In the deepest and peat-filled center, the bald cypress trees grow the tallest, relying on hundreds of years of nutrients packed in the peat. The trees become smaller as you move away from the center point even though the cypress are all the same age. We journeyed to the hammock because even in the dry season the dome stays wet, housing all the diverse wildlife. In the winter the Cypress shed their needles which increase the acidity of the water, deepening the corrosion of the limestone and deepening the peat-filled depression.


Protecting
            sentiments


I have always felt a loving connection to this part of my home, it is a place that is never fully knowable.