As Above, So Below: Nevo Zisin
Artwork by ENOKi
Featured music is ‘Heart Beam’ by ELFL
About the Author
Nevo Zisin (they/them) is a storyteller, esteemed educator on transgender topics, TEDx speaker, poet, workshop facilitator in schools and workplaces, and award-winning author of Finding Nevo, a memoir on gender transition and The Pronoun Lowdown a useful guidebook on all things related to pronouns. They have been in-conversation with Queer Eye’s brilliant Jonathan Van Ness, Transparent producer Zackary Drucker & world-famous spoken-word poet & activist Alok Vaid-Menon. Their work has appeared in The Saturday Paper, NGV Magazine, Archer Magazine, Buzzfeed, Junkee, SBS, Hack Live, ABC’s The Drum, The Morning Show, amongst others. They were a 2022 Varuna Scribe Fellow and are an ambassador for Wear It Purple and an inaugural ambassador for the Victorian Pride Centre.
Transcript
In the world of mushroom foraging, I find myself simultaneously in and out of place. Stepping on a tiny mushroom accidentally, I feel awkward and clumsy, like a mid-pubescent teenager at their first school disco. The guilt of possibly damaging the delicate mosses underfoot makes me want to retreat to the comfort of Netflix in bed, where I can do no harm. But then I remove my shoes, feel the damp earth between my toes. The warm autumnal sun shines down on my face, making me glad that I put sunscreen on despite the cool weather. I am not indestructible. Startled by kangaroos appearing out of nowhere, my heart races, and I feel alive.
As I forage, I learn the importance of reciprocity, taking only what I need and leaving enough for others, be it human, slug or millipede—there is a particular species of mushroom inside which I always find millipedes wrapped in the same position, like a curled up cat at the end of a bed. I leave them be—they got there first! Returning home with a basket full of edible wild mushrooms, I feel blessed by the abundance of nature. Cooking breakfast for my housemates, the mushrooms sizzle in the pan, releasing their juices. I add butter (the really good kind) and wait till the garlic turns fragrant in my nostrils. Today’s breakfast, Lepista nuda or wood blewit, with its lavender hue, has a beautiful floral aroma and is one of my favourites.
I didn’t grow up with much of a connection to nature, opting for TV time over walks. My Ashkenazi Jewish ancestors are a diasporic people, we have learned to make homes wherever our heads lie—and yet, I could have rattled off Simpsons characters before I could tell you the names of any of the plants in my backyard. But as I explore fungi, I am beginning to feel more intrinsically connected to the world beyond my rental walls. Learning the call of the currawongs, identifying edible weeds for my salads, I weave back together frayed tethers from decades of disconnection.
‘Fungi teach us that we are all interdependent,’ write Michael Lim and Yun Shu. ‘When we finally surrender our separateness, we realise that we are not outside of nature, but within it.’ My own informal study of fungi has gifted me humility and assurance, hesitation and confidence, an ability to dance in contradiction. With over six million species of fungi in the world, and over 98 per cent of them remaining undefined, my perfectionism has not a single straw to grab onto. I must surrender myself to the mysteries that may never be able to be answered, to all of the things I may never know.
Potawatomi professor Robin Wall Kimmerer, in her seminal 2013 book Braiding Sweetgrass, writes:
In the Western tradition there is a recognized hierarchy of beings, with, of course, the human being on top—the pinnacle of evolution, the darling of Creation—and the plants at the bottom. But in Native ways of knowing, human people are often referred to as ‘the younger brothers of Creation.’ We say that humans have the least experience with how to live and thus the most to learn—we must look to our teachers among the other species for guidance. Their wisdom is apparent in the way that they live. They teach us by example. They’ve been on the earth far longer than we have been and have had time to figure things out.
Fungi are our ancient teachers, one of the oldest life forms on the planet. Neither plant nor animal, fungi form a kingdom all of their own. In fact, they share more DNA with humans than with plants (offering explanation for why fungal infections can be so hard to treat—it can be difficult for medications to discern what is us and what is the fungi!) As a non-binary person, I find kinship with fungi, a symbol of resistance to rigid binaries. Schizophyllum commune, for instance, boasts over 28,000 sexes, and yet as humans, we struggle to contemplate that there could be more than two.
Within a colonial paradigm, we try to make sense of the earth’s mysteries through the creation of binaries—man and woman, black and white, plant and animal, human and non-human, left and right, natural and unnatural—these dichotomies offering comfort amid the chaos of existence, some answers where we often find only questions. But in the process of creating binaries we litter the cutting room floor with colours, genders, forms of expression—and the tethers that tie seemingly polar opposites toward each other. Sometimes these exist just above and beyond our focal points, such as the earth’s magnetic field guiding migratory animals, or the moon’s gravitational force causing tides. Beneath our feet are stretching mycelial networks, which act as a natural internet, facilitating communication and nutrient exchange among plants and trees. As above, so below—patterns in this network mirror those found in the human-created internet, the galaxies in space, and the neural pathways of our brains.
In a fascinating 2010 study, researchers from Hokkaido University used slime mould to map out one of the world’s most efficient railway systems. Using oat flakes arranged in the configuration of each major urban hub, and bright lights representing obstacles like mountains (slime moulds are not big fans of light), the researchers observed as the slime mould dispersed evenly around the nutrient source. After about a day, this single-celled organism with no central nervous system had created the most efficient routes between the oats, displaying an uncanny and almost identical resemblance to Tokyo’s existing rail network—one that had taken decades of civil engineering and urban planning to create. Despite our dazzling technological feats, we are forever intertwined with the ebb and flow of the natural world. Acknowledging this symbiotic relationship fosters a sense of stewardship and propels us toward a more sustainable future, and an opportunity to strengthen relationships with those who have been caretakers and custodians of this land for tens of thousands of years.
In the grand tapestry of life, perhaps our true connections lie in embracing contradictions, mysteries, paradoxes and anomalies. Let us find more comfort in confusion and recognise the threads that unite us all—be it the mycelial network, the railway system or our complex relationships to gender. As we continue to weave our frayed tethers, may we revel in the beauty of not knowing all the answers; may we ask for help from non-human kin; may we listen to their answers, knowing that this is where the true magic of life unfolds.
This initiative is supported by the Metro Tunnel Creative Program which harnesses the innovation, imagination, and expertise of the creative sector to help manage construction impacts.
