True, infinitesimal immortality is nothing more than a pipe dream. An unattainable goal that keeps us reaching for the stars. It has already been proven that even gods die eventually, alone and forgotten on the sides of long-faded roads.
Despite this, we continue to try and build deeper and deeper lies to convince us otherwise. The internet, the vehicle of our incessant hyperconnectivity, is our latest attempt at infinite preservation. We load it with as much knowledge as we can in the hopes that it will leave an undeniable record of our journey through the cosmos.
And the internet, like all other things, will eventually become dust. There will come a day when not even a whisper of our species remains in this universe. Every server, satellite, hard drive, and selfie will be wiped away. We are no Precursors— our death will be final and absolute.
This is one of many concepts on my mind as I work on my most recent project. I’ve been pressing plants since last September, thanks to a random birthday gift from a friend. A hobby I hadn’t previously considered has now become deeply important.
Finally, I have a place to catalog that hobby. I’ve bought a journal where I can keep snippets of plants I press, drawings of what they looked like, and vignettes of where I picked them. Anything I can do to preserve that record.
I often have a pervasive focus on memory. But, unlike some, I am not afraid of being forgotten. I have made my peace with that eventuality. Instead, I am afraid of forgetting.
Initially, I only wanted this journal to catalog the plants I had found. But as I spent hours carefully crafting the cover page, writing a whimsical introduction, laying stamps on acrylic blocks, and carefully blending watercolor, it became something much more.
I found myself reflecting deeply on why I had picked all of these plants. I realized that so many factors were essential in the story of my plant gathering:
- Where I was
- Why I was in that location
- Who I was, or wasn’t, with
- What I was feeling
- What meaning I may have attached to these specimens
I realized quite quickly that there is actually a deep story behind every press I’ve done. I will never be able to fully capture this story on the page, so my initial mission of cataloging had to be abandoned. This also meant abandoning— or attempting to, at least—my fear of forgetting the important details.
My new mission is meditation. Each page, each addition is an opportunity for me to examine my own memories and emotions. It’s a place to explore the stories behind the plants and the way that my story merged with theirs.
To the friend who gifted me the small flower press: thank you. It kicked off a journey I don’t think either of us expected, and I am deeply grateful for that.
I have found new ways to experience the intertwining of the divine, physical, and natural. To see Iðunn in the leaves of an Elegant Zinnia, to feel Jorð in a sample of Absinthe Wormwood.
Ashton Rose 