The Mycelium Network

Two weekends ago, I had the immense pleasure of spending time with our Culturally Committed community during our Spring Equinox event.

Sunday morning began early—very early—at Transfer Beach on Stz’uminus territory, where our Mentor, Thomas George Jr. of Halalt First Nation, led us in a powerful and grounding spirit bath. The morning was chilly and damp, and it took a good dose of will to remove myself from my warm car and make my way down to the beach.

But as Thomas spoke, the power of his words helped me find the strength to step into the cold water. It was a quiet, reverent way to greet the day—held beneath an overcast morning sky and the gentle rhythm of the ocean.

By late morning, we gathered again—this time at the beautiful waterfront home of our dear friends and community members, Laura and Mark. Their home became a place of warmth, connection, and joy as 32 friends and Mentors came together for a full day of food, cedar weaving, learning, laughter, and storytelling.

Among our special guests was Hwiemtun Fred Roland from Quw’utsun, a long-time friend and respected Knowledge Keeper. Hwiemtun held our attention with stories woven from legends, humour, and lived experience. Then, with patience and gentle guidance, he led us in the intricate art of weaving cedar baskets—a practice both humbling and deeply symbolic of the day.

After the weaving session, we sat together in circle, and Hwiemtun shared more teachings from his life and work. One story in particular has stayed with me.

He recounted a talk he once gave at a conference, where he spoke about recent scientific findings around the interconnectedness of trees. He described mycelium networks—vast, intelligent communication systems that run beneath the forest floor, allowing trees to share resources, warn one another of danger, and nurture new growth.

Science, he noted, is only now beginning to understand what Indigenous Peoples have always known: that everything is connected—not just in the natural world, but within and between us as human beings, too.

“How are we connected in this room today?” he asked.

We stood silently in circle, gazing at one another, the question hanging in the air. Then someone quietly offered:

“Through our breath.”

“That’s right,” Hwiemtun replied. “We are inhaling and exhaling one another’s molecules in this shared space. Molecules that have passed through our plant relatives, enriching the air with oxygen, and again now, with each other. We are connecting, right now. We are all one.” 

As I sat with Hwiemtun’s words, I reflected on how we view nature—and ourselves. Science is showing us that the trees I once saw as standing alone are, in truth, part of a deeply connected system. So too are we, as human beings. In nature, when one tree is weakened, the forest responds—the surrounding trees offer support. It doesn’t operate in isolation.

Yet today, how often do individuals and families find themselves working alone? Frantically hustling to manage it all, trying to maintain an unfathomable pace—often until we’ve poured out every part of ourselves, with nothing left.

The forest doesn’t ask the struggling tree to try harder. It doesn’t shame it for being tired or depleted. It simply responds—with nutrients, with connection, with care.

What if we did the same? What if community meant not just showing up in celebration, but attuning to the silent signals of need—offering rest, nourishment, and presence when words fall short?

In a world that often encourages disconnection—from the land, from each other, and from ourselves—it’s easy to feel alone. But this reminder, spoken so simply and with such grace, brought me back to something deeper:

We are never alone. We are breathing together. We are learning together. We are growing into something greater than ourselves.

This gathering reminded me that community is not just a place we visit; it’s something we carry—in our breath, our stories, and the way we show up for one another.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.

In learning,

Kim