From Plastic Art Supplies to Forest Foraging: Rewilding My Creative Practice

Every time I click 'add to cart' I am choosing against my own aliveness. Against texture, against connection, against the sacred work of being human in relationship with what sustains us. That's why I found myself foraging for ink in Sherwood Forest today.

I'm not going to make everything from scratch. I still live in this world, within these systems. I'll still need paper and I won't always have the energy or time or desire to source everything through my own hands. But I can do some of it. And perhaps, over time, I'll do more of it.

We were under the oak tree by the play park - myself and Miles and the children, hunting for oak galls to make black ink. The forest was breezy and sunlit, with dappled light reaching down through the leaves. Children playing, people calling after their dogs, families chatting. Acorns dropping around us like nature's percussion.

I picked up handfuls of material, felt the smooth acorns and dropped them back - the shells have tannins for ink-making, but too much effort to remove the meat inside. I kept the empty acorn caps though, feeling their rough edges. The smooth round galls are supposed to be best for making dark black ink, but there weren't many of those. Plenty of knobbly textured ones though, so I'm going with those. We'll see what happens.

My daughter became excited explaining this process to a friend she'd just made - how we'd read about making medieval ink from these galls, how the tannins would react with iron. I love watching her share knowledge she hasn't even tried yet, generous with what she knows without needing to be an expert first.

This is what I'd been missing without realising it. My hands knowing which materials to choose. My body moving through space with purpose. The children learning through living rather than sitting. Time slowing down instead of speeding up.

Compare this to three weeks ago when I ordered pens and paper online. The process was looking at photos on my phone, clicking add to basket, paying. They arrived the next day. Unwrap the box, peel off the plastic, start using them. So convenient. I could create almost immediately.

But I hated the plastic waste. If I'm going to have a long-term art practice, I don't want it producing this much plastic rubbish. Same with the pens that get thrown out when they're empty. There was no tactile richness - just smooth cold plastic. No forest textures, no seasonal rhythms. I didn't need to leave the house or interact with any people.

It was soulless.

I felt that by favouring convenience I was forsaking the richness of human connection and sensory experience. Every click was a small betrayal of what I actually value - presence, connection, the earth that sustains us.

My art is all about embracing human imperfection, celebrating whatever marks we make as ours and valuable. Using homemade inks feels like extending this philosophy to my materials too. Embracing the imperfection and wildness of what the forest offers. Accepting that we are of the wild too, not separate from it.

This isn't just about art supplies. It's about remembering what it feels like to be fully alive in our bodies, in relationship with the living world. To choose connection over convenience, presence over efficiency, when we can.

The forest is waiting. So are your hands.