Love in the Broadest Sense
& Fernando Murillo on the human mycelium
Hi friend,
I’m writing to you from my hotel room in Minneapolis, where in a few hours, I’ll be stepping onstage for the final show of the Alchemy Tour. I’m finally catching my breath and just beginning to process the whirlwind of these last two weeks. To all of you who came out, to the independent booksellers and all those who helped make the tour possible, and to everyone who championed The Book of Alchemy—which is officially an instant New York Times bestseller!—I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Just yesterday, I was editing an excerpt of the book for The Atlantic, from the chapter “On Love.” It’s not about love in the narrow sense of romance, but in the broadest, most community-minded sense. It’s about how crucial our connections with other humans are, how they sustain us through life’s valleys and enrich the peaks.
This feels so resonant for me as I look back. At each tour stop, I had the chance to celebrate those bonds. I think of the Brooklyn show and Lou Sullivan, a two-time pediatric brain cancer survivor and the youngest contributor to The Book of Alchemy—he was six at the time. At the end, when I announced he was there, he stood up in his little suit and stretched out his arms, inviting the applause, reveling in it. I think of Gloria Steinem, the book’s oldest contributor at ninety-one, who came to that same show with a walker. I offered to come over and bedazzle her walker with rhinestones the way I bedazzled mine post-transplant, and she said yes—on the condition that I binge-watch Call the Midwife with her.
I think about my friend Fernando Murillo, whom I saw at the San Francisco show and whose story we honored onstage by scoring an audio recording of his voice to music, along with Lou’s and Gloria’s. I met Fernando back in 2017, when I was reporting a story on a California prison hospice where inmates become caregivers to fellow prisoners who will never make it out alive. Fernando was one of those hospice workers, and in 2020, after serving twenty-five years of a life sentence, he was pardoned. He called me on the day he was released to tell me he was a free man and to thank me for helping bring light to his story. Not long after, he penned an essay and prompt that appears in the book called “The Human Mycelium,” about the many ways we are supported and nourished by the humans who surround us.
For Fernando, those humans include his niece and also his sister, who supported him in so many ways when he was on the inside, who worked so hard to get him out and to ease the process of reentry—no small task since he’d been in prison from the age of sixteen. I got to meet both of them for the first time this week and to spend hours chatting and connecting with them, since his sister did my make-up. And if that weren’t enough, after the show I also got to see Michele DiTomas, the chief physician and hospice medical director at the prison. She reminded me of how the Isolation Journals community stepped up and donated funds to put together Christmas gift packages for the inmates at the height of covid and how meaningful that was. It was so full circle.
One of the main themes of The Book of Alchemy and of the tour is fear—and how in moments of great uncertainty, fear can freeze us up and keep us from living. But by invoking creativity, we can shift from fearing the unknown to reveling in the magic and mystery of the unknown. As much as writing, dancing, painting, and music-making, I believe that cultivating community is a creative act. Our relationships flourish when we pay attention to them, when we devote our time, our thoughtfulness, our care, and our imagination to how we show up for one another. And so today, in the spirit of community, I’d like to share Fernando’s beautiful essay and prompt, “The Human Mycelium.” May it remind you of all the humans who sustain you, who make you feel safe, supported, and at home wherever you go.
As Jon says, I love you, even if I don’t know you,
Suleika
Some Items of Note—
I’m so honored to have an excerpt of the chapter “On Love” appear in The Atlantic. You can read it here!
Please join me in helping The Book of Alchemy fly into the world, so it can find the people who need it most. Share it with your friends and family, post about it online, or leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon.
Prompt 336. The Human Mycelium by Fernando Murillo
On November 10, 2020, Gavin Newsom, the governor of California, granted me clemency. Ten days later, I walked out of prison as a forty-one-year-old man after entering on a life sentence as a sixteen-year-old child. In those twenty-four years of incarceration, I really didn’t get to see trees up close.
Since my release, I have been enjoying hikes, enjoying my time with trees. California has some big, beautiful ones—redwoods, eucalyptus, oak, just to name a few. I tend to stare at them. I am amazed by all the life these beautiful trees support, for bugs, birds, rodents, as well as people, humanity. But what I am truly amazed by is what we cannot see: the mycelium, that underground fungal network that sustains and enhances life. Trees do not live and function on their own. They thrive and flourish through that unseen network beneath our feet.
As I stared at trees, I thought about how, when I was locked in the concrete bunkers of Pelican Bay, I would close my eyes and reconnect with memories of friends and family. In my mind, I reconnected with humanity to keep myself alive.
Nature is so beautiful. I think of Tilden Park in Berkeley and all of its trees, the way they sound when the wind blows through them. Our natural human disposition is to be social. We need one another. These beautiful trees that I have had the privilege of seeing, touching, smelling, listening to—they’re teaching me an invaluable lesson: We are so much more than one individual, functioning person. We are mycelium, a network that creates and sustains life and growth. We are not alone; no, we are very much connected.
Now that I am a free man, I have been paying so much attention to our mother (Earth); she has so much to teach me about my place here, and how I can make a difference. I hope with these shared experiences, we can continue to be that human mycelium, gravitating toward growth, hope, and meaningful relationships.
Your prompt for the week:
What is the unseen network that helps you thrive and flourish? Who makes up your human mycelium?
Today’s Contributor—
Fernando Murillo, a San Francisco resident, is passionate about hospice care. During his five years working in the prison hospice at California Medical Facility, where he was incarcerated, he was trained to provide compassionate end-of-life care for geriatric and terminally ill patients in a correctional setting. Now, as the Program Manager at the Humane Prison Hospice Project, Fernando trains incarcerated peer caregivers to provide better care for terminally and seriously ill individuals within the carceral system.
Praise for The Book of Alchemy
“An extraordinary collection of wisdom. The Book of Alchemy is a springboard to new ideas, new insights, and new identities.” —Adam Grant, author of Think Again
“The Book of Alchemy proves on every page that a creative response can be found in every moment of life—regardless of what is happening in the world. It also demonstrates that we can be more creative together than we could ever be alone. I recommend it to every dreamer, with the highest respect and joy.” —Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love
“Beyond her brilliance as a writer, Suleika Jaouad’s greatest offering to the world is her brilliance of generosity, her curiosity, her seeking heart and mind. The Book of Alchemy is an extension and expansion of these gifts.” —Hanif Abdurraqib, author of There’s Always This Year
“Brilliant. Gentle. Encouraging. This book is the perfect mix of incandescent wisdom and kick-in-the-pants motivation to start your own creative journey.” —Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason
It is through great loss that I found my human mycelium. The thing is...they're all dead. My grandmother, who loved me so special. I lost her when I was 12. She still loves me special. I feel her in shock of color my geraniums provide, the crush of the first tomato leaf and the scent that only it contains, and when I see a cardinal, male or female, I know she is there, watching over me, reminding me of her deepest love. My first kiss...oh damn he was gorgeous and when he died of cancer at age 63, I thought my heart would stay crushed. But he is there, helping me look at myself and reminding me of when I was 14. And all the feistyness and fairydust of that age returns to me. My mom...it has been a year since she left this plane of life and comes to me in whispers of wisdom and delight. "This too shall pass," and she was right. I see her in the daisies, lollygagging in the sun, in a hot cup of tea on a hot day under the shade of my porch. Thank you Fernando for the opportunity to explore that loving network, holding me up, moving me forward and keeping me upright. Suleika, oh, New York Times Best Seller, the wisdom of a 6-year-old and my feminist she-ro, Gloria Steinem...oh, what a beautiful morning.
I have always been the one standing a little apart —
more comfortable in the spaces between,
more at ease in the company of trees than crowds.
My relationships in the living world have been hard-won,
like vines that only twine after long seasons of stillness.
And yet, this weekend, I stood among strangers —
a scout hall breathing with decades of hope —
& I voted not only for myself,
but for those whose hands were never allowed to mark the page,
for those still waiting for a voice.
I did not know the names of the people beside me.
They did not know mine.
But still, we moved together —
an unseen network, humming with the stubborn magic of belief.
It reminded me:
I do not have to know you to stand with you.
I do not have to touch you to be touched.
Somewhere beneath our feet, beneath all our guardedness & grief,
the roots are always weaving —
quiet, tireless, unseen.
The human mycelium is not made only of closeness or familiarity.
It is made of something older, wilder:
The way a laugh can find you across a dark room.
The way a vote can be cast not just for yourself but for a stranger’s child.
The way the earth hums with life you cannot see but feel.
Even as a loner, even as one who finds touch difficult,
I am fed by this network.
I thrive because of it.
We are stitched together not by obligation,
but by the simple, radiant fact of being alive at the same time.
And so I lean in —
awkward, tender, willing —
toward the unseen weave that holds me,
toward the breath of others carried in the same wind,
toward the knowing that I have never truly stood alone.
•••
Suleika,
so thrilled by the thought of you finding new rhythm through the bass.
What a beautiful new thread.
Fernando, your words sank deep,
like rain into parched soil. Thank you.