After arriving to Canada three days ago, I sat in the airport voice noting a friend about how the universe gets its kicks from us humans.
“You’re funny universe. You’ve got a real sense of humor, I dig it, but also… f* you.”
Amongst the plethora of projects on my plate, and besides one personal circumstance that left me quite flabbergasted (the Grinch’s voice, ‘the unmitigated gall’, stuck in my head), I’ve noticed a pattern.
I’m sure this is the serendipitous spirit in me and not inattentional blindness hopping aboard (the gorilla theory), but my neck has been turned towards botany; more so the alchemy of it.
Lately, life has been inexplicably fast paced, as if I need to learn something from it. Just one year ago, after graduating with my masters and tinkering away on my second feature documentary, I grew scared. I knew I had taken a risk by moving to a foreign country, and though I’d intrinsically avowed that this was the best move I’d ever make for myself, the precipitation of self-doubt rolled in the clouds. I wasn’t sure where a steady source of income would emerge or if my niche knowledge being a health advocate would carry me into a purposeful future.
Fast forward a year later. Before my flight to Canada, I was on the brink of a mental meltdown trying to pack at 1am after taking on too many projects at one time. I knew Big Britches Bri mode would reengage and the menstrual, losing her mind Bri would subside, but the knot of gratitude and wtf were highly intertwined. Not only have I been blessed with projects that I find fascinating, important, and keep my bills paid, but I turned down my first ever work due to being completely booked. And I think it’s all due to remembering the alchemy of botany.
One of the projects I’ve been working on for almost a year is with Edinburgh’s School of Medicine: the EMS 300 project. As the school turns 300, they have prepared an entire team with work streams and artistic endeavors to capture this special birthday. In order to research and gather historic evidence, I attended their Archivathon event where we were given access to extremely weathered and worn documents. These papers and books spanned from the 1700’s to the 1900’s. One such seasoned text was their calendar book (from the late 1700’s) and it holds all the information from the year – classes, schedules, professors – and if you flipped through their term classes, you’d see that Botany was an essential course. I found this fascinating at first. Why on earth were they studying plants? But then it dawned on me that, back then, we didn’t have modern medicine, pharmaceutical companies, and the lucrative insurance industry which instructs the management of our ‘healthcare’ today.
Botany actually remained a necessary class until 1961 (a few decades after the Rockafellars tinkered with the system and found a way to ‘drill the oil’ out of us). No longer is Western medicine derived from nature but from synthetic chemicals that have been slowly poisoning so many of us. We’ve gone from understanding our bodies as a whole, studying the world around us to help mitigate chronic issues, to abandoning that organic, custom centered care. The marvel of modern medicine was supposed to be for acute treatments and emergency situations, not “management” — which has turned into control. We’ve grown accustomed to fast paced living, to popping pills and forgoing nutrition, to being trapped indoors and ignoring necessary sunshine. We are, strangely, plants — our bodies malfunctioning not because we haven’t been given the right medicine or pill, but because we just aren’t living the way we used to.
I deeply felt this two weeks ago while picking brambles with two friends under the day’s early morning light. It allowed me time to breathe, unclench my jaw, wander. I touched dewy leaves, held space for quiet conversation, and laughed my ass off (due to a golden duggo carrying the largest branch down Hollywood). Every second was a seed of health and harmony.
We think that having all of these 21st century technological advices makes life easier, but in reality, I think they keep us trapped in a way. We think we have to constantly produce to maintain relevance, and dance-monkey-dance, and suddenly give a shit what keyboard troll Kimberly from Oklahoma says on some random insta post, or obsess about what our partner’s ex is doing because screens glue insecurity to curiosity. Now, I’m not saying that technology doesn’t have its place, much like I highly believe medical advances have their place, but seeing botany become irrelevant, as some sort of elective, is where we’ve gone wrong. And I’ve seen this in action.
Recently, I submitted to a programme that means the world to me and to many early stage documentary filmmakers. Only a few are chosen for the workshop segment, and only four are chosen in the end to have their film idea commissioned. My proposal surrounds my time in the wild Cairngorms at Ghillie’s home. In three weeks, I’ll be back there, reveling in and roving the beautiful terrain. Cell reception is sparse and nostalgia hits hard. I am old enough to remember playing outside, getting dirty, creating mystical worlds and adventures from thin air, and being magnificently present. Ghillie’s glen offers that on a silver platter. Within 24 hours, you don’t even want your phone. You want this. The defiance of what you’ve been sold and to take up arms to protect what was — the ability to soak in sunsets without your phone pinging, or skimming rocks instead of scrolling, or digging for a pignut for the sake of just digging for a pignut, no matter if it’s cool or if anyone else is doing it. The art of presence has drowned in the sea of cellphones, iPads, reels, and ‘advances’; in chemicals, synthetic casings, and any genetically modified mean.
And to round out the alchemy, I was presented with a unique opportunity last week. A director and producer I have worked with before were shooting two ads for a gin company based out of Islay. All I knew was that a wholesome friend of mine would be involved, so I said yes. I truly should have turned it down, but there was a tinge of me that felt pulled in (besides the also growing fomo). Once the group chat was set, I realized the name of the gin: Botany. The universe was just being too obvious for me now.
We ended up filming in two locations, the first being the one that truly touched me. I’ve never been to North Berwick near Edinburgh, and the scene was to be filmed at Yellowcraig beach. In September, weather can be unpredictable, but that particular evening it was stunning. I am a lover of lighthouses, as well as the sea, which clearly overwhelmed the mermaid soul within as I was greeted with both under a blue, gorgeously lit evening.
As I’d arrived, I’d felt very anxious — my social battery low, my priorities disheveled. I didn’t feel particularly pretty either and I’d been dealing with matters of the heart. However, that view with the wind in my hair, the sand at my feet, and the sound of the waves, set in a sense of calm.
Now, the idea (from what I gathered) behind the shoot was the meaning of moments. With only four of us, 2 men and 2 women, we would dance in the sea, frolic about, enjoy ourselves around a bonfire, and call it a night. It became relevant, however, that one cast mate and I would be kindling a scripted romance. It was to be subtle, but tangible. So, as we sat around the fire, I gently reached out and touched his hand, unscripted. “Can you do that again, Bri?” the director yelled. So, I did. Again, and again, to the point where the touch became a gentle hold.
For me, affection has always been a form of alchemy. To grow is to be held, whether that’s with arms or with soil. We, as humans, are just plants in need of watering and care.
And at the end of the night, we had one last scene to shoot. I was asked to film with my scene partner, sitting on a rock, looking out towards the water, my head finding its way onto his right shoulder. Connection.
So, although that was a manufactured moment, the moment itself was still real. That there is an innate, human need for the world around us and not the technology and manufactured modes of care we’ve been given.
That touch is a tonic; that presence is a therapy; that plants are a panacea. That perhaps, botany should be back in our curriculum and lives.
Leave a Reply