Abstract
This paper explores the possibilities of engaging in playful interactions with ancestral forces, expanding the boundaries of academic writing. Specifically, it examines the interplay between writing and inquiry, emphasizing play as a means of communion with both human and nonhuman ancestors, fostering vulnerable listening within academic discourse. Departing from conventional productivity-centric writing approaches, the paper advocates for a paradigm wherein writing responds to curiosity, evoking play, and imagination, while also embracing experimentation and learning. This conceptual shift envisions writing as a dynamic companion, extending its engagement beyond human ancestors through a posthuman theoretical perspective. Similar to play, writing emerges from interactive experiences, offering a conduit for establishing profound connections with the external world. Engaging with ancestral figures through playful frameworks necessitates embodied practice, encompassing sensory, emotional, and sociocultural dimensions. The paper employs practices of storytelling, metaphors, and nonlinear narratives in an exploration of three nonhuman ancestors in particular: moths, ladders, and trees.
Consider the possibilities that could arise if we approached writing as an opportunity to respond to curiosity flares sent from different corners of our world. It may require us to engage with playful and vulnerable acts of listening in order to truly pay attention to these signals. Rather than focusing on maximizing productivity, what if writing could serve as a means of exploring the questions that spark our curiosity and imagination? Playful exploration doesn’t require a definitive answer, but rather a willingness to experiment, practice, and learn. Imagine the possibilities if we could treat writing as an active companion, a partner in a game of jump rope, or a sparring partner in a friendly wrestling match. Perhaps we could even engage in these playful activities with our ancestors, expanding the boundaries of what is possible through writing. What if we could use writing as a tool to grow and expand, rather than simply compressing our thoughts into measured, institutionalized forms? By embracing the playful spirit of writing, we may find ourselves better equipped to engage with the world in more meaningful ways. Play can be more than just recess time, but instead a powerful tool for connecting with our surroundings and expanding our own personal horizons. So, given these provocations let us pick up our pens and join the playful dance of writing, allowing ourselves to be swept up in the wonder and joy of it all.
Background
As individuals advance through various stages of life, a gradual erosion of opportunities for leisurely activities and playful endeavors occurs, resulting in the expectation to self-determinedly comply with social norms (Deterding, 2018). Adults somehow convince themselves that they can no longer talk to their imaginary friends, play in the sandbox, or climb trees. Not only because it’s childish and boring (Bogost, 2016) but also because it’s not perceived as productive. Our daily routines are responsible for a diminished sense of joy, increased boredom, and the assumption that this constitutes a full and rewarding life. In contrast to this perspective, Bogost describes play as erupting flares borne out of boredom (p. 4) or as a flare that goes up when something is intriguing. Underneath this boredom exists meaning that is stranded, that deserves and requires rescue. This meaning is rescued by the act of play.
Special Issue
In this special issue on writing qualitatively, I initially present the idea of writing as a tool of communication for further comprehending how to navigate academic spaces to make sense of the world around us. I further view play as a medium that enables communication with both human and nonhuman ancestors that consequently allows for vulnerable listening within such academic spaces. Additionally, I point out that writing does not begin with pen etching against paper or tapping keyboards while words form on the screen. Writing and especially, qualitative writing follows a nonlinear path. Much like play, writing is born from experience and dialogue with the world. Through writing, we share these experiences and dialogue with those who came after as well as before us. I wanted to write this piece with my ancestors rather than to them. This desire was inspired by having had the privilege to play with them at various stages of my life. I wanted to invite them on this playful journey with me as I slowly made sense of my relationship with writing throughout the pandemic year of 2021.
Writing Process
This piece was written originally during a course I took on Writing & Qualitative Inquiry in the Spring of 2021 taught by Dr. David Carlson. During the course, we got to meet prolific writers such as Dr. Venus Evans-Winters, Dr. Kakali Bhattacharya, Dr. Kimberley Powell, and many others. A repeated prompt that had haunted the DCI 691: Writing & Qualitative Inquiry course, was the meaning offered by our ancestors (Evans-Winters, 2021; Rhee, 2021). Thus, a theme that sent up a flare for me was the idea of writing with and through our ancestors. Though ancestors were not the focus of our discussions, the theme seemed to follow me around, and haunt me, much after the course had concluded. As each guest writer approached the idea of ancestors differently, it dawned on me that I lacked a meaningful connection with my human ancestors. At the same time, I felt very much connected with my nonhuman ancestors. This dichotomy was worth exploring.
Inspired by these curiosities, I begin by providing some background on how this paper was written. Often, not enough space is dedicated to describing our writing process in the articles we author. My ancestors are not in the past. These forces and beings are here beside me—guiding, loving, and caring for me in each moment. Alongside them, I give birth to my present. Through storytelling grounded in multiplicity, metaphor, repetition, and illusion I am able to write with them. I begin by describing my relationship with my human ancestors. This includes my blood and lineage ancestors. I then outline my relationship with my nonhuman ancestors. I dedicate three sections to three nonhuman ancestors in particular. First, I write of moths as ancestors who acted as witnesses and watched over my play with insects. Next, I talk of my relationship with ladders as well as the lands and portals they guarded. Finally, I write about a rhododendron tree who served as my trustworthy confidant. I conclude this article with some opening reflections on play and my relationship with writing.
Disruption of Traditional Writing
In order to disrupt traditional writing, hierarchies, and storytelling as decolonizing practices, one must center marginalized voices, perspectives, and other ways of knowing. The role of the storyteller is “central to the exercise of agency and renewal” (Sium & Ritskes, 2013, p. V). This involves actively seeking out and amplifying the stories and experiences of those who have been historically silenced or marginalized and recognizing the ways in which dominant cultural narratives have excluded or distorted these voices. It also requires a willingness to challenge and subvert traditional modes of storytelling and representation, and to experiment with new forms and techniques that disrupt hierarchies and power dynamics in the writing process. Finally, it involves a commitment to ongoing learning, reflection, and collaboration, as well as a recognition that decolonizing writing practices are always in process and require ongoing attention and engagement.
Decolonizing writing practices is important because it can contribute to the development of new and more inclusive forms of knowledge production that are better able to respond to the complexities and diversity of contemporary social realities. By disrupting traditional writing hierarchies and elevating storytelling as a decolonizing practice, research can help to create more just and equitable knowledge production processes that are better able to represent the experiences and perspectives of diverse communities. In an attempt to tell stories, I worry if this piece will even count as academic writing. In fact, every time a scholar reflects and revises a draft, I believe they are giving rise to new portals that hold a potential richness of story.
Posthumanist Onto-Epistemology
I therefore situate myself in a posthumanist onto-epistemology. While posthumanism is a broad and diverse field of inquiry, one of the central tenets of posthumanism is a rejection of traditional human-centered views of the world, and an embrace of more complex, nonlinear, and interconnected understandings of reality (Braidotti, 2016). This consequently must apply to posthumanist writing as well. While traditional writing practices rely on linear narratives, from a posthumanist perspective, linearity is often seen as a limited and artificial construct, one that obscures the inherent complexity and interdependence of the world around us. Instead of viewing time, causality, or relationships in strictly linear terms, posthumanist approaches emphasize the dynamic, emergent, and relational nature of these phenomena.
The world is made up of complex, heterogeneous networks of interconnected components that are constantly in flux and changing. The key to posthumanist writing, “is an acknowledgment of a kind of betweenness among what was previously considered the human and nonhuman” (Boyle, 2016, p. 540). It becomes necessary for writing to represent these complex assemblages and emphasizes the ways in which these stories are constantly being reconfigured, disrupted, and transformed by the forces of change and adaptation. Posthumanist writing offers a diverse and multifaceted set of approaches to understanding the world around us, and its perspectives on linearity reflect this diversity. This includes a rejection of simplistic and linear understandings of reality, and an embrace of more complex, emergent, and relational views of the world.
More specifically, this paper addresses the issue of writing and inquiry. It addresses play as a form of communion with human and nonhuman ancestors that allows for vulnerable listening in academia. Playful communication produces writing that follows a nonlinear path and is born from experience. This approach advances our understanding of the relationship between writing and inquiry from a relational and emergent perspective. Writing/inquiry, researcher/writer, human/nonhuman are entangled in these processes.
Human Ancestors: Blood and Lineage
“We are surrounded by traces of the past, a veritable garden of ghosts.” (Tsing, 2017, p. G65)
The idea of a “veritable garden of ghosts” surrounding us is a reminder of the many layers of history and experience that shape our relationships with the world and those around us. This includes the knowledge and beliefs passed down from generation to generation, which can be influenced by both human and nonhuman ancestors. However, not everyone has the privilege of knowing their ancestors. In place of that exists loss, grief, and conflict. I have known an amalgamation of both forms thus it is important to explore my personal history to better understand the ghosts that reside in my own “veritable garden” and the ways in which those ghosts continue to shape my experiences and relationships.
My grandparents had survived the geopolitical conflict, mutual genocide, and separation between India and Pakistan in 1947. A majority of my family had been lost beyond the borders. To make sense of these interruptions in my family tree, I began to play with the idea of writing letters that would never be sent to my grandparents and great-grandparents. I was convinced that the body was the foundation of all relationships. I believed that I ought to have a special relationship with my blood ancestors because they had created my body with their bodies. According to Tsing et al. (2017), extinction often involves a dearth of connectivities. While I was lucky enough to have known some of my grandparents unlike many others of my generation, I could not help but ask questions about what life was like back home for them. I began to ask for their names trying to trace my blood lineage all the way back to the mitochondrial eve. I wanted to know where our recipes came from and why we played certain card games the way we did. I wished to know more about their personalities and if we had photographs of them all. I was curious as to whether I looked like them or if we had the same curly hair. These initial questions about my blood ancestors spurned my search for additional ancestral connections.
I was taught was that we could honor our blood ancestors by giving them offerings during a fire ceremony. A havan is a sacrificial Buddhist and Hindu fire ceremony where the homeowner offers grains, ghee, milk, incense, and seeds to honor their ancestors. I learned to celebrate recently deceased relatives. I would participate in havans annually as a child however I never understood the significance of this practice until much later. This was for me, an initial step in acknowledging the first group of people I had a spiritual pact with, one of being born into their bloodline. Who I was, mattered less and was secondary. I was essentially rooted in this pact.
Similarly, due significance was given to lineage ancestors as well. Along with blood ancestors, I also learned to acknowledge lineage ancestors, those adopted into the family lineage. Though admittedly I continue to be haunted in my dreams by individual and collective ancestors, each time they bring new teachings. As I begin my journey of identifying my relationships with them, I also learn to do so playfully. I persist and pursue my own rituals constantly incorporating new and old teachings with theirs. When they come as dreams I can play with them, when participating in rituals I feed them, laugh with them, and even scold them when they’ve let me down. We can touch and hear each other as I tell them what I want to accomplish in this lifetime. We are not so different. I dip my toes into a giant repertoire of histories and communal memories now accessible to me, my own archive.
Playing With Human Ancestors
Playing with my ancestors necessitates an embodied practice that involves a range of sensory, emotional, and social processes. It is shaped by the cultural and historical contexts in which it occurs, as well as the specific relationships and power dynamics involved. The experience of playing with my grandparents is not only influenced by my own perceptions and interpretations, but also by the ways in which my grandparents themselves construct their roles and relationship with their grandchildren. Play also emphasizes the importance of attending to the ways in which language and discourse shape our experiences. The language we use to describe playing with grandparents can affect how we understand and value the experience, as well as the relationships involved. Some of my ancestors have passed on to other planes while some remain still out of reach as I live so far away in a foreign country. Writing with them allows me to stay attuned to the ways in which my experiences are constructed and to attend to the complexity and multiplicity of those experiences. It reminds me that the experience of playing with ancestors is not a linear or predetermined phenomenon but is constantly evolving and changing.
Play has continued to bond me to my ancestors ever since I was a child playing with my grandparents. Alongside my grandmothers (blood and adopted), I had grown up folding countless old newspapers and scraps of grocery lists into boat-shaped props. As I listened and folded each edge into its angular form, I was introduced to family members I had never met. After creating and folding each boat, we would breathe life into its belly by blowing into the middle. Each one looked different and was a different size. Some boats had messages while some were kept anonymous. A flotilla of boats was then released within the canal that ran alongside our ancestral home.
I watched my grandma use a rubber spatula gently push down the batter and scrape up the bottom of the pan as she lifted some of the batter up and over the whites of the yolks. She could recount countless recipes passed down through many languages and grandmothers of her own. Some precise and some guided by memory and touch, she cooked to honor multiple generations before her.
With my grandfathers, I built plastic tanks. We would glue down microscopic mechanical parts hoping every piece would find a place in the final version. Painting the final piece was a delicate and precise job. I watched him work in his garage fixing automobiles and old vintage cars. I played the role of his assistant, running back and forth fetching spanners and bolts of various sizes. Thus, play with both my human and nonhuman ancestors has always necessitated an offering of oneself into worlds unknown.
Vulnerable Listening and Writing
When it comes to writing with my nonhuman ancestors, I adopt a slightly different practice. To engage with my nonhuman ancestors, I learned to practice vulnerable listening. Vulnerable listening is an embodied and relational practice that extends beyond the boundaries of human agency. Vulnerable listening can be understood as a process of attuning oneself to the entangled and coconstitutive relationships that exist between humans, nonhumans, and the environment. Vulnerable listening shifts the focus from a solely human-centered approach to one that recognizes the interconnectedness of all beings and entities. It acknowledges the ways in which humans are entangled with their environment and coconstituted by the various nonhuman actors that shape their experiences. Vulnerable listening involves a willingness to listen to the voices and experiences of nonhuman entities, from the natural world, and to recognize their agency and significance in shaping our world. At the same time, vulnerable listening also involves a recognition of the power dynamics and inequalities that exist within these entangled relationships. It requires a willingness to listen to the voices and experiences of those who are marginalized and oppressed and to work toward dismantling these structures of power and domination. In this sense, vulnerable listening can also be seen as an ethical practice that involves a willingness to be open and receptive to the voices and experiences of others, both human and nonhuman. It involves a commitment to listening deeply and attentively, while also recognizing and challenging the power dynamics that shape our world. Ultimately, vulnerable listening can be seen as a way of fostering more just and respectful relationships between humans, nonhumans, and the environment.
To begin writing with my nonhuman ancestors, I had to learn what it felt like to write with them. Writing is an act of creation that involves generating something new and requires fearless, imaginative foresight, and a nurturing push forward. To fully breathe life into a written work, I needed to trust in the power of releasing control and output. Surrendering to the creative process involves compassionately relinquishing inflexible plans and tapping into the rhythms of daily life that are perpetually being born before my eyes. This surrender allowed me to find solace in the vulnerable process of writing, intimately connected to my ability to trust the power of the release. As I wrote with them, I couldn’t help but reflect on the grief and transformation that are inherent in bringing a vision to fruition. I asked myself: what parts of myself have perished in order for the most current version of me to come into being? This process of writing with my nonhuman ancestors allowed me to explore the depths of my own creativity and vulnerability, and to cultivate a deeper connection to the entangled and coconstitutive relationships that exist between humans, nonhumans, and the environment. In the following section, I elaborate on my writing practice with nonhuman ancestors and its origin.
Nonhuman Ancestors
My first experience of writing with my nonhuman ancestors came upon me unexpectedly. During the summer of 2021, I responded to a call for artwork titled, Turn it Around! Flashcards for Education Futures, a learning tool made by youth, to reimagine our approach to education, and our relationship with the living world during this time of climate crisis (see Figure 1). These cards were distributed during the United Nations Climate Conference of COP26. Along with the image, I had written- “Having grown up at the foothills of the Himalayas replete with litchi orchards, life has been full of encounters with inhabitants of the mountains, each one carrying a different shard of my ancestors. I speak with them — to the moths that would go to sleep before sunrise, to the bees in constant fearless search of sweetness, and to the litchi trees whose seeds took up space in between pieces of gravel. I learned upon talking to these non-human ancestors, how to decenter myself from the sovereignty of man. I had to let go of the idea that my ancestors could teach me something that the litchees and bees could not. Nature enables countless encounters with magic. Magic doesn’t take us out of ecosystems but roots us more deeply in them. How can being with our non-human ancestors initiate a quiet act of vulnerable listening?” (Singha, 2021) Vulnerable listening Flashcard.
I had been fortunate to engage in vulnerable listening (Singh, p. 140) which necessitates a whole new way of being with the human as well as nonhumans. Having grown up at the foothills of the Himalayas, life has been full of encounters with prior inhabitants of the mountains—human and nonhuman; each being I had encountered seemed to be carrying a part, a shard of my ancestors. They had walked and lived on the same land and had kept each other company. Singh says—“to mobilize one’s animality is to dispossess oneself from the sovereignty of man, to refuse the anticolonial reach of becoming masterful human subjects” (p. 122). From a humanist western perspective, we are often told to identify ancestors as humans who are treated as above other life forms. To dehumanize one’s roots, one must let go of the binary between the animal and nonhuman. To truly talk and play with my ancestors, I had to decenter myself from the sovereignty of man, I had to let go of the idea that my ancestors could teach me something that the ladders and trees could not. I began to instead write letters to the moths that would go to sleep every morning when I would wake up, to the wooden ladder that enabled a hopping over of boundaries, and to grandma Azaleas- the 440-year-old rhododendron tree who offered a weary ear to my stories, during what seemed like some treacherous treks.
While nonhuman ancestors can exist in multiple forms such as spirits, lands, and ancestral homes, the line between human and nonhuman ancestors is often fuzzy. According to Rose (2017), “stories of kinship and connectivity are said to begin with ‘dreamlings’ who represent the creators of human and nonhuman biotic life on earth” (p. G52). Humans too evolved out of animals, who evolved out of fungi and bacteria who evolved out of plants. This family web can be traced back to nonhuman origins. Many nonhuman ancestors can be treated like elders and in some cases deserve the same respect as my great-grandparents. I began to then explore what other nonhuman ancestors were willing to write with me.
Playing With Moths
Dear mother moth, thank you for keeping me company amongst the apple trees in the evenings.
Having spent most summers on my family’s apple orchard I have distinct memories of devoting each day to playing with the insects. During the day I would begin my investigation around the shrubs. Upon spying on their thoughts carefully, I would find little worms lying on wild strawberries. These worms would bask in the sunlight, wiggling their ting green bodies against the tough exterior of fruit. Similarly, during the afternoons, the ladybugs, busy on a secret mission, could be found resting within tall grass. They had a job to do—catch and eat all the aphids. I followed their path carefully tracking their tiny footsteps. The butterflies nested on sunflowers as I chased them, if only I could get a glimpse at their furry scales. The sunflower field camouflaged the yellow nymphs so effectively. Every few days I would find the bodies of those that had passed away resting on the florets slumbering in peaceful sleep.
However, what fascinated me most were the moths that would become immobile each sunrise. Having spent considerable time playing with all the insects I always had a special affinity for the moths. Each one was different, some had powdery wings while some had wings that would curl on the edges; some had eyes that would look back at me while some wore wooly coats. Some moths (see Figure 2(a) and (b)) were green and perfectly camouflaged by the subsequent green in apples. When running among the sunflowers, the butterflies would be actively engaged in a game of tag with me, but it was the moths who would just watch, patiently surveying the space around them, resting, sleeping, thinking. The game of tag albeit a simple one, has always necessitated a form of movement—running and chasing. It involves the simple sensorial touch—of tagging the next one. The tag helps pass down a new role to the next person flipping the roles of each player. Writing too is often relational, it is both sensorial and ephemeral. It is indeed fascinating to think about what the game of tag teaches us about writing! How does our literature grow and run as we continue to tag other scholars? (a); (b) The Green Fruit-Piercing Moth (Eudocima salaminia) photographed by a family friend one winter evening.
When thinking about why we often look to our human ancestors I realize that most of us are seeking a form of validation or an answer that can help compose our existence. In the case of the moths, it was my childlike curiosity that helped inform my orientation to the world around me. As I listened to the moths with deep vulnerability, I realized that they had so much to offer beyond their mere physical presence. They held stories and memories that spanned across generations, connecting me to my father and grandfather in ways that I never thought possible. It was these same moths that had slept next to my father when he was a child as well as my grandfather when he went to bed. The moths had witnessed so much in terms of time and experience. They had so much to offer to me once I learned to truly listen to them. All three generations of man then had the same ancestors. I listened with deep vulnerability.
In that moment, I felt a profound sense of interconnectedness with my human and nonhuman ancestors, and a deep gratitude for the opportunity to engage in this vulnerable act of listening. The act of vulnerable listening with my nonhuman ancestors allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of the world around me and my place within it. It enabled me to appreciate the rich histories and experiences of those who came before me, and to acknowledge the role that they continue to play in shaping my present and future. By embracing vulnerable listening, I was able to connect with my ancestors and the moths in ways that were both transformative and empowering.
Colonial education has made me believe writing, as well as our lineage, is hierarchical. However, looking back to who my teachers truly are, I believe it was the moths that taught me to embrace my personal history. Writing no longer must remain objective or separate from me. My ancestral discomfort offers me new ways of being with the world. Talking to my ancestors now is not about going back to find a root to connect with, it is more about relating to ways I can connect with the world around me as well as potential other worlds that await discovery.
Virginia Woolf in her essay The Death of the Moth (1942), describes how small a role moths play in the grand scheme of things—“it was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zigzagging to show us the true nature of life”. Similarly, Kimmerer (2017), highlights the animate nature of rocks, fire, mountains but also of sacred medicines, songs, and stories. Animacy is not about just being an animal or a thing, the moth is not an it but rather a who. Writing with moths allows me to extend myself across a barrier with compassion and intention. It forces me to access a world of possibilities and wisdom that always surrounds me. “We do not have to figure out everything by ourselves: there are intelligences other than our own, teachers all around us. Imagine how much less lonely the world would be” (133). This is how I envision playing with the insects of the orchard. While I played tag with the butterflies, hide and seek with the ladybugs it was the green fruit-piercing moth (see Figure 2(a) and (b)) that stayed with me.
Playing Across the Ladder
Dear Forest Ladder, thank you for providing me a place to rest within the Kaudia forest.
The apple orchard was surrounded by the Kaudia forest, home to a now dwindling number of bears and panthers. The orchard was thus home to humans, animals, plants, fungi, and other organisms that were born, lived, or died on that land. Towards the end of the forest and broken road was a ladder leading into our neighbor’s farm. This ladder had two sides, each necessitating the other to stay upright. Across these two sides, approximately five or so branches were placed making it easier to climb. The side that faced the forest represented an invitation to rest while the other an invitation to adventure. The side for rest marked the end to the dirt road, the conclusion of a journey, a spot suspended above the earth, perhaps well-earned to rest weary travelers. The other side marked a portal into another world, one of green grass, peaches, and apricot trees—new lands to explore. This was a significant focal point within the forest. The ladder held a kind of power for multiple generations before me, at times a border as well as a portal between two worlds.
I couldn’t help but listen vulnerably to the stories the ladder conveyed about countless people who had climbed this ladder before me and the different meanings it held for them. Perhaps for some, it was a symbol of hope, a way to escape poverty and hardship. For others, it may have represented a connection to their roots, a bridge between their past and present. As I climbed the ladder, I felt a sense of awe and reverence for the power and significance it held. It was a tangible reminder of the resilience and strength of those who came before me, and the sacrifices they made to create a better life for themselves and their families. In that moment, I realized that the ladder was more than just a physical object—it was a symbol of the enduring legacy of my ancestors and their unwavering determination to overcome adversity and build a better future.
The ladder was crooked but also dangerous. On either side of the ladder were fences of barbed wire. This danger was interrupted by an invitation tucked away like a reward for having made it across the forest. Each year that I climbed the ladder, it seemed less intimidating, shorter even. Though it prevented large forest animals like brown bears and possible deer from entering, only those possessing the ability to climb it or fly over were invited. The only way to leave was also the ladder. Few knew this secret of the forest. On some days we rested on the ladder after our walk and thereafter made our way back home. In these instances, the ladder was an exact middle point of our journey. However, other days we would cross the threshold after our rest, ready for the next adventure that awaited us on the other side. On some days we would carry picnic mats, frisbees, and playing cards and once a comfortable spot beyond was discovered we would enjoy some sustenance.
Ladders, a symbol of classification and order have also always been a significant tool within play. From playground slides to the jungle gym and even within games such as snakes and ladders, ladders have always offered players an “inexorable march upward—up a stairway of creatures with humans at the top, positioned as the most advanced beings” (Hejnol, 2017, p. G87). To climb the ladder of progress has always alluded to neoliberal notions of wealth and power.
However, what made this crooked ladder (see Figure 3) so special was that it offered a way across. The ladder sat between two worlds. On one side was the Kaudia forest while on the other side was the potential for adventure. The ladder offered an invitation from the forest into the human world. It allowed us to cross a border established not in the dirt or by any man-made fence, but rather one established by my neighbor’s word of mouth. We were allowed to venture into his farm as long as we respected the rules of the ladder and the forest. It is curiosity that first led to crossing across this ladder only to discover a whole world beyond. When speaking to this ladder I begin to ask why we are often coerced into believing in a singular ancestral identity? My sister and I, aged 2 and 5, resting on the other side of the forest ladder.
Oftentimes our writing can also lead us across portals of discovery. As much as traditional academia requires us to have structure and closed ends in our writing, it is indeed an adventure to pick up writing in the middle of paragraphs. What if editing and writing was not about climbing the ladder of completion but rather stepping downwards one beam at a time, looking for incomplete sentences and unexplained theories. What if we could re-imagine and re-create stories from our drafts that had nothing to do with the topic at all, thus going on adventures within the worlds created by our writing. What if being lost in the forest could serve as a practice to become unstuck or to approach our work differently?
Playing on the Great Rhododendron Tree
Dear Grandma Rhododendron, thank you for making me laugh as I ran down the dirt road to catch up with you.
Trees have been used to represent family lineage for centuries. Often ordered and hierarchical, family trees represent branches of our ancestors and family members growing both top and bottom but also outwardly left and right. Often depicted as diagrams and crests, family trees have grown constantly over time. Some taper over time while others are lost or taken over by gaps too large to fill. In her poem When Great Trees Fall, Maya Angelou writes- “...And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.” -
This message of hope and renewal after a loved one’s passing is put forward as an extended metaphor. The idea of energy, of soul, of something that transcends the physical world is at times a comfort to those mourning the loss of loved ones. The Kaudia forest behind my orchard housed an ancient rhododendron tree (see Figure 4(a) and (b)) we all called the “throne.” As a child, this tree offered me solace and a moment of joy during our family treks. It had a convenient dip in one of its thickened roots that resembled a chair or seating area. This space was always big enough for just one person. As a child, I have fond memories of racing ahead to seat myself on the throne while I waited for the others to catch up. Her branches would provide climbing steps and as I held on trying to get to my favorite seat; I could not help but feel safe. (a); (b) Grandmother Azaleas’ throne: the great rhododendron tree; carved in by the road, 2017.
I distinctly remember looking forward to telling the tree what I had been up to. I had found the most compliant listener. This experience of sharing my life with the tree allowed me to engage in vulnerable listening, to open myself up to the possibility of receiving and understanding the tree's own unique story and perspective. Through this act of listening, I was able to connect with the tree in a deeper, more meaningful way, and to gain a greater appreciation for the complex, interdependent relationships that exist between all living beings. This little game allowed me to explore a previous world with the tree. Her roots and flowers told me a story back, they responded to me. I was able to relate to the tree body as someone who had been part of this forest for centuries. Our relationship wasn’t hierarchical. It was playful, it was cosmological. It was a ritual. As I confessed my secrets, I received no shame and no judgment. I felt unconditional care. According to Mathews- “Although these forests are often empty of people, they are empty in a particular way; evidence of former human use is omnipresent. This is a place where people, trees, and other nonhumans have been entangled for a very long time. Traces of these past relationships are visible in the forms of trees, of areas of forest, of drystone terrace walls and of drainage systems. Through my practices of walking, looking, and wondering, I have been tracing the ghostly forms that have emerged from past encounters between people, plants, animals, and soils. These ghostly forms are traces of past cultivation, but they also provide ways of imagining and perhaps bringing into being positive environmental futures (2017, p. G145).
Today, the throne is perhaps half its original size. It is painful to look at. The lack of care shown to its remaining trunk and stumps tells a story of recent urban and industrial capitalism. Though the tree still blooms rhododendrons, a testament to its stubborn defiance in the face of neglect, I cannot help but look at its suffering as evidence of partial and parasitic encounters between the human and nonhuman. This soon to become complex anthropocene landscape is devastating.
In an episode of Star vs. the Forces of Evil (Nefcy et al., 2017), audiences are introduced to a wintertime holiday called Stump Day. The holiday tradition began when long ago, a small group of seafaring explorers crashed their ships during a cold winter night. To survive, they huddled together around a giant tree stump to keep warm and share supplies. A strong bond of friendship was forged between them. They commemorated the occasion by carving their initials into the back of the stump. Thus, each year they would come together to honor the stump for a full 24 h “or else” face the wrath of the stump. This story is a significant illustration of friendship forged between the human and nonhuman but also one of protection and ritual. I sometimes like to imagine my favorite rhododendron tree wreaking havoc on those trying to destroy the Kaudia forest. But ultimately metaphors must fall apart, forcing us to rethink notions of what it means to be a part of family, ancestry, and human complexity. According to Hejnol- “Though there is no way out of metaphors, there are certainly better and worse ones. Ladders and trees—structured around the idea of human superiority and linked to problematic ideas of complexity and hierarchy—have proved particularly discouraging of curiosity” (2017, p. G100).
Vandana Shiva and Brand (2021), an environmental activist, who perhaps lives about 2 h from this very tree has repeatedly stated that we as humans and custodians owe a deep sense of gratitude and responsibility to the world we take from. There exists a partnership between our bodies, the bodies of the animals, and the body of the earth. We are not masters but instead there to serve. And much like the wrath of the stump, taking more than your share is theft.
At times when writing this paper, I have wondered about how much I am willing to open myself up during this writing process. I ask myself how deep I am willing to mine myself and extract experiences from within. As researchers and writers, how we extract and write with our data is so important. The stories we tell in our writing are done so with a deep amount of responsibility. As the years have gone by the Kaudia forest has been desecrated. Roads have encroached upon that forest. My beloved throne is now half the size it used to be, humans have shaved into the earth, the mountain, and into her roots. I have spent considerable time grieving the loss of her physical form. However, this has helped me realize that writing cannot control time, (the damage is done) there is a reason I have dug deep enough to find her and to write about her today.
Encounters
There is a growing interest in understanding the complexities of the natural world and the relationships between humans and nonhumans (Singh, 2017). This acknowledgment has opened new avenues for interdisciplinary research, which encourages immersion in the lives of both humans and nonhumans. In this context, the act of storytelling has the potential to serve as a powerful tool for understanding the history, experience, pain, loss, and grief of our ancestors. The journey with our ancestors is a complex one, and it requires a commitment to bear witness to their stories, pain, and grief. The act of storytelling can help us acknowledge the role of multispecies interactions in our lives. Through play, we can immerse ourselves in the lives of both humans and nonhumans and gain a deeper understanding of the natural world.
On this journey with my ancestors, I began my day playing with insects, running up to the rhododendron tree to tell her my stories all the way until I reached the ladder to rest. I flow through multispecies interactions and entanglements within a multispecies family. According to Rose (2017)- “with it comes a burden: the commitment to bear witness to the shimmering, lively, powerful, interactive worlds that ride the waves of ancestral power. This commitment calls me to engage in forms of scholarship that encourage “passionate immersion” in the lives of both humans and nonhumans (p. G53”).
Play invites us to participate safely in scholarship. In cultures that rely heavily on oral stories, such as Indian and South Asian culture, our stories carry history and experience with them. These stories also carry pain, loss, and grief. They are an act of defiance at times because they allow those silenced to have a voice. They represent what is left of our ancestors, ghosts, and those we have lost—“what are ghosts if nothing but stories that cannot remain buried?” (Khatri-Patel, 2022).
A Conclusion?
In conclusion, play, vulnerable listening, and writing are interconnected. Play can serve as a space for connection and experimentation, allowing individuals to trace their roots, and explore new ideas and insights that can then inform writing. Vulnerable listening, in turn, can create space for new languages, perspectives and insights to emerge, which can then be incorporated into writing. Additionally, writing can be a form of play, allowing for exploration and experimentation with language and ideas. Overall, the connection between play, vulnerable listening, and writing underscores the importance of creativity, experimentation, and openness in the process of knowledge creation and communication. By embracing these practices, we can develop new insights and perspectives, disrupt traditional modes of thinking, and engage with complex and multifaceted issues in more dynamic and generative ways.
As I write what has traditionally been known as the conclusion, I wonder if play indeed has an end point. Some games are structured as levels and end after a full round of play. However, the kind of play that we have encountered here does not seem to have an ending—it is open-ended, it has movement, and it transcends time. I write about these three playful encounters to investigate how the seemingly literal and redundant can offer new ways of being curious. Playing with writing and encounters of play can set the terms of our scrutiny, beyond ourselves. For even in the concreteness of discovering nuance they can be abstract, they can be enjoyed. Playful writing then is a building of the capacity to build relations that don’t seem possible. Play allows me to add meaning but also to subtract meaning. This is determined by my decision to rearrange the world around me.
Similarly, writing tells a story of its own. It is not static, it holds memory, time, people as well as butterfly wings, roots, and dirt. It only when we write and listen with vulnerability can we truly hear when the moths, ladders, and trees speak back to us. My connection to the orchard and this world was forever affected upon the arrival of my baby sister at age 4. Not only did I now have a new play partner, but I also had something to pass across to her—my play style. As newly formed play partners we fiercely defended the secrets of the orchard.
Being from a country with a connection to a fragmented colonial legacy it is hard to ignore the recurrent historic motif of us versus them. What if we could instead pass our knowledge of the world to each other instead of down the line? Writing then, having done a lot of it this semester, can most definitely be playful. It can allow us to connect and share. Moreover, it enables us to listen and touch each other, tag each other, and laugh with one another. Writing, like time, waits for no one, it must be chased around our forests and fields, up and down ladders and trees until our curiosity is satisfied. This act of playful writing challenges the colonial notion that writing is taught only in the classroom, that it is serious, or that it is passed down to us by only our human ancestors.
An Offering
As we come to the end of this exploration of the interconnectedness of play, vulnerable listening, and writing, I invite you, dear reader, to consider how these practices might be taken up in your own qualitative inquiries. And so, I offer my readers some provocations—(1) What moments of curiosity send up flares for you? (2) How can writing playfully help you rescue meaning from within moments of curiosity (3) How can writing playfully with your nonhuman ancestors be a quiet act of vulnerable listening? These are some of the provocations that I offer to you, as a way of extending the gift of my own experiences with these practices. It is my hope that through this invitation, you will find new ways of engaging with your own writing practices, and that you will discover new connections and insights that will enrich your work. So take what I generously suggest and extend it into your own writing practices, and see where it takes you. I hope that this paper can demonstrate that not only is writing collectively with my ancestors possible, but that stories and ideas can surface from the most unlikely sources. I thus invite others to tolerate ambiguity, explore uncertainty, and go on adventures with one’s own questions.
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
