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A youthful figure stands at the precipice of a chasm, clad in moss and bark and leaves. Across the mists, the Wildwood awaits, branches open. At the Wanderer’s feet is a pile of stones, stretching into the unseen past. The Wanderer is caught mid-step. A faint rainbow bridges the gap, waiting for their reaching foot, ready to ferry them into the Wood.
The first forest I can remember in my life doesn’t have a name. Rather, it does have a name, in many tongues, but I do not remember its name. I do remember that it had a Turtle Pond, where one could often see the eponymous turtles. It also had salamanders and buzzing dragonflies and curious bees.
As a child, I would sit near (or in, if allowed) the edge of that pond, hands poised, waiting. Someone else would lift a rock from the pond’s bottom, and I would rapidly scoop my hands down, hoping to catch a salamander as it fled.
When I was successful, I would only have moments to feel its slimy back and the stick of its toes. If I was lucky, I could deposit it on the warm surface of the shoddy wooden structure that wanted to be a boardwalk. The salamander would sit, stunned by the light and warmth, while we marveled at its colors. Then it would scurry away, vanishing back into the murk of the water before we could react.
I think this is when my Wanderer first awakened, searching for salamanders at Turtle Pond. Young and without guidance, I did not know my place in the Wood, but I felt irresistably drawn to it. It was expected that I’d grow out of that urge to hunt for salamanders. I did not. I still flip rocks and fallen logs, only now looking for spiders and isopods and worms, not amphibians. Each shelter is carefully returned after I examine them, no creatures harmed by my insatiable curiosity. Through examining their role in our environment, I meditate more on my own, and on the role so many of us have abandoned. I meditate on the importance of bearing witness and becoming familiar with the voices of others.
On July 26th, 1990, the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) was signed into law. For the first time in colonial American history, the government recognized that disabled people were, in fact, people, deserving of the rights supposedly granted to all citizens. This monumental act came at the cost of untold crip hours, dollars, and bodyminds.
I start with the ADA because to many Americans, it marked The End. The end of the disability rights movement, of the need for increased legislation around disability and accessibility. The end of crip sit-ins. “You got the ADA. What more could you want?” those Americans ask.
The ADA was not the end of any of those things. Perhaps it was an end—of the work of specific advocates, of one track of the disability rights movement, of a moment in history. But it was by no means The End.
Rather than closing a door, the ADA opened thousands. It was a milestone. It is a proud block in the temple of our history. It does not define us, and the journey that began with the signing of the ADA is what interests me the most.
The baggage of legal unrecognition left at their backs, my disabled ancestors walked and rolled and crutched onward, across the chasm and into the unknown but familiar path through the Wildwood.
More than 300 years earlier, in 1678, James Carkesse was taken against his will and locked in Finnesbury Madhouse. Later, he was transferred to the infamous Bedlam. Carkesse, whose story is dangerously close to being forgotten, was a member of the Royal Navy before his internment. Little more is known about his life beyond what is recorded in the diaries of Samuel Pepys.
After his release in 1679, Carkesse published Lucida Intervalla, a collection of poetry primarily about his experiences being confined. For the first time in recorded history, the literate English public were given an intimate invitation to the Wildwood of disability. A path across the abyss.
No longer need they stand behind the bars of Bedlam, gawking and laughing at the wretched creatures put on display there. Carkesse implored them to think about madness and disability not from their perspective, but his. From among the trees rather than across from them.
The ADA would seem alien to Carkesse, but the culture that spawned it less so. The bars and walls that “protected” English citizens from disability in 1679 had not vanished, and had followed colonizers across the Atlantic. By 1990, they had been supplemented by newspaper print and one-hour television specials. Today, 15-second videos in the endless scroll of content create the foggy abyss between us and them. They can ogle at the disabled, look in on the Other, comforted by the virtual distance. Distance from the reminder that they are all just one potential moment away from becoming disabled themselves.
(Episode continues below)
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The Wildwood does not experience time as a line, but a cycle, iterating endlessly upon itself. You do not always move from one card to the next. You may skip some, turn around, get lost along the way.
Lucida Intervalla and the ADA are two parallel moments in this cycle. Times of dumping baggage and having the courage to push forward. Having faith that, when they tried to cross the gap, a supportive rainbow would appear beneath them. James Carkesse and George H.W. Bush had vastly different viewpoints on the Wood, but in these moments, they shared a space, creating the bridge that they hoped others would cross.
As I’ve meditated on these cards, I’ve often wondered what Carkesse would think of them. Would he see his journey painted across their surface? Would he connect to them far faster than I? Would he reject their Wood for a design of his own?
Starting this project has been challenging. Our world has not created an environment that supports difficult, gentle introspection. But Carkesse has anchored me, reminding me of the urgency of our voices. The Wood—alongside all the Earth’s woods—is being burned. We see its vitality, and to convince others to fight its destruction, we must make them see it too. All Carkesse and I have are our words.
I remember the last time I visited Turtle Pond, still unaware of the name of the wood that housed it. The entire surface was opaque, coated in sickly green algae. The water gave off a stench that grew worse the closer I got. I could see no turtles resting on the logs or stones, no movement in the water.
An excess of nutrients, likely caused by human dumping and the death of the pond’s vital plants, helped the algae multiply. Debris built up and slowed the water’s flow from the pond’s exit, breeding stagnation. The pond had died.
My Wanderer cried in that moment, although I couldn’t categorize the emotions that welled within me. I can now: grief, terror, and rage.
Unfortunately, Turtle Pond is but one example of the life systems destroyed by humans in my lifetime. These systems will, one day, rebound, no matter how much damage we do to them. But will we be here to see that? Even if we are, how will we justify the unnecessary lives lost in the process?
When Carkesse, the ADA, or I invite you into the Wood, remember this: you are accepted as a vital part of its existence. Do not squander that gift. Do not let greed guide your footsteps. Awaken your inner Wanderer, and follow their curiosity. They will show you the path towards your role in the Wood.
The Wildwood Tarot was created by Mark Ryan and John Matthews, with illustrations by Will Worthington. This writing is an exploration of my own reflections on and relationship to the cards, not a guide on how to use the deck. For that, see the creators’ wonderfully thorough guide book that accompanies the deck.
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Ashton Rose 