Make room for the mushrooms
Not just an advert from 40 years ago!
As I was walking through the National Arboretum this weekend, most were looking at the changing leaves. But look down, and around the base of the tree, you’ll see mushrooms pushing through the soil — delicate, brief, and seemingly appearing overnight. They’re eye-catching. Something about them always demands attention; they take us straight back to childhood stories and magical appearances.
Once you do notice them, you begin to notice them everywhere, to the point where you begin to appreciate the sheer variety. The mushroom is only the surface; beneath it lies mycelium: a vast, hidden network that connects trees and plants, sharing nutrients and messages through the earth. The forest thrives, not because of what we see, but because of what happens underground.
Human connection works the same way. What we show to the world — our smiles, conversations, and posts — is just the visible part. Beneath every person lies a deep web of feelings, memories, and stories. Between us, invisible threads form through empathy, laughter, and shared experience. These quiet exchanges are our mycelium — the unseen network that keeps us alive and connected. Like the forest, we need to tend to our hidden roots; we must try to look beyond what is surface level. In fact, the greater the uniqueness of mushrooms or trees, the more we are excited. If a tree is shaped by circumstance or location, we marvel at it - do humans get the same free pass? If only the media felt that way? Mushroom caps remind me that the most meaningful parts of life, the most authentic parts of us, can often remain hidden in the dark, where they can’t be seen but can always be felt.
Next time you see a mushroom, or a tree that’s growing unusually, let it remind you that we often prize difference and diversity in nature - so we could remind ourselves to do the same with people, because after all, we are often only being made aware of the surface level. What isn’t visible, well, that’s the magical stuff, the really connective stuff that helps me connect to someone halfway across the world as a human, a son, a father or a brother.
