I was probably around ten years old (fifth grade, to be exact), when I first learned about the difference between swamps and marshes. Swamps, if I remember correctly, are heavily saturated wetlands that contain trees and other woody species of plants, while marshes are less woody. What I do recall, in all of that, was the fascination and fear I had around swamplands. Swampland is the place of some of the most interesting horror scenarios, including human-eating crocodiles, or unknown things living in murky places. Swamps seem to embody a kind of primitive subconscious, where there is a lot of uncertainty, and one cannot see their identity or direction in all of it. The fear of being in a swamp is none other than the fear of being eaten before one finds one's 'path' in life. Could swamps also be 'liminal' spaces--transition points to a more integrated kind of maturity? If that is the case, there is value in remaining in a swamp for as long as one can bear, without getting lost in one.
If swamps and marshes are such dangerous places for people, why is there an insistence on preserving or even cultivating marshlands? Why is it so intriguing to hear the wall of birds, frogs and crickets close to a boggy area? I think the reason is that they symbolize a kind of fervent, rabid fertility that goes unchecked when there is sufficient moisture and plants to sustain life. Frogs, crickets, dragonflies: all seem to emerge from this seemingly spontaneous place of life. And I often wonder where they go in the winter, or how they can possibly survive when the water freezes over on these small bodies of water. One particular marshy place close to where I live on Leslie/Sheppard Avenue, sports a small pond with a lot of algae, moss and frogs in the summer, with the occasional wood-duck as well. But now that it is November, I imagine the place to be pretty barren. What is intriguing is the self-sustaining aspect of swamp life; how all links in the chain seem to interconnect so seamlessly, to create a shared space. But it is also a place where things die, things go underground, things freeze over in an instant. Swamps and marshes are places where there is continual birth, death and renewal, as seen in its many contrasts across the seasons.
I think that during times of very painful change or transition, going to a swamp can be an interesting and valuable experience. As absurd as it sounds, the swamp is also a place of regression that can be healing: a place to step back and see natural elements working in harmony to create an environment. Without the sense of a self-sustaining ecosystem, I get caught in the illusion that I am in charge of things, or have a divine control over what happens to me in the future. As much as people are called to care, there are ways in which people are cared for as well. Even the oxygen I am breathing is in part from the support of ecosystems that are not in my influence. I can relax in the awareness that there are things that do take care of my body and life, even when I am not able to do so consciously or with any knowledge.
Sleep is another good example of swamp-territory. Like swamps and marshes, sleep is a world that is very fertile: it's a place where a lot of body maintenance and digestion takes place in the background, where consciousness yields to a parasympathetic nervous system, and where dreams take over to flush through the mind. Things consigned to the 'underground' of consciousness take their place, without too much intervention from consciousness. And these systems are at work continuously, unbeknownst to me.
Swamps are also places of inspiration. Life happens and can be a source of beauty and abundance. There is no need to cling to one facet of life when there is so much life integrated together in a single environment that connects with still other environments. In this mind-set, does it make sense to cling to one relationship or one role in life, as though it were a make-or-break situation?
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