When most people walk through a forest, they notice the trees, the wildlife, or maybe the smell of pine needles after a rainstorm. Very few stop to think about the vast hidden world that lies just below the surface. But for me, that hidden world has always been the most fascinating part of the forest. I’ve spent years studying fungi, particularly a wood-decaying species called Resinicium bicolor. What I’ve learned is that these quiet, often overlooked organisms are doing something extraordinary—they’re moving minerals through the soil in ways that help sustain the forest above.

Why Fungi Are More Than Just Decomposers

When we think of fungi, we usually picture mushrooms pushing through the forest floor or molds breaking down old leaves. It’s true that fungi are nature’s recyclers. They decompose dead wood and plant material, turning it into nutrients that enrich the soil. But that’s only part of the story.

Some fungi also act as transport systems for minerals. They have threadlike structures called hyphae that spread through the soil and wood, forming networks that can stretch for surprising distances. Through these networks, fungi can take minerals locked inside rocks and soil particles, dissolve them, and move them elsewhere. In other words, they’re not just recycling what’s already available—they’re unlocking nutrients that would otherwise remain out of reach.

My Journey With Resinicium bicolor

One of the most fascinating experiments I’ve worked on involved Resinicium bicolor and a mineral called strontianite, which is rich in strontium. We set up a simple but telling test: we gave this fungus soil that contained strontianite and watched what would happen.

What we discovered amazed me. The fungus was able to dissolve strontium from the mineral, transport it upward through the soil, and repackage it into tiny crystals of calcium oxalate. Imagine a microscopic highway system where minerals are picked up in one place and deposited in another. That’s exactly what Resinicium bicolor was doing.

Seeing the crystals form under a scanning electron microscope was like watching the fingerprints of the fungus at work. Some crystals were star-shaped, others blocky, and in many cases, the fungal threads ran right through them. It was clear that this process wasn’t random—the fungus was actively controlling how and where these minerals were stored.

Why This Matters for Forests

At first glance, this might sound like a curious laboratory finding. But when you think about it in the context of an entire forest, the implications are huge. Forest ecosystems depend on a steady cycling of nutrients like calcium, phosphorus, and magnesium. Without them, trees would struggle to grow, and the forest would lose its vitality over time.

By dissolving minerals from deep soil layers and moving them upward, fungi make those nutrients available to plants and other organisms. This vertical movement of minerals is especially important because it connects the energy-rich surface layers—where fallen wood and leaves provide food for fungi—with the deeper mineral layers that plants can’t easily tap into. In a very real sense, fungi are bridging the gap between rocks and trees.

Crystals as a Nutrient Bank

One of the most intriguing parts of this process is the way fungi store minerals in crystals. Calcium oxalate crystals are like little vaults of nutrients scattered throughout the soil. They may not be available immediately, but over time, as conditions change or as the crystals break down, those minerals can reenter the ecosystem.

This means fungi aren’t just moving nutrients; they’re also banking them for the future. It’s a dynamic system that keeps the forest supplied with essential elements over the long term. Without fungi, nutrients would stay locked away in rocks, and forests would slowly become nutrient-poor environments.

Lessons From the Invisible

What I find most humbling about this work is that it reminds us how much of life on Earth depends on processes we can’t see with the naked eye. We often think of trees as the defining feature of a forest, but in many ways, the health of the forest starts with the tiny fungal threads below ground.

Whenever I walk through the woods now, I think about those hidden networks. I imagine the fungal cords stretching through the soil, dissolving minerals, and leaving behind tiny crystals. It changes the way I see the forest. It’s no longer just a collection of trees—it’s a living system where even the smallest organisms play critical roles.

There is still so much we don’t know about fungi like Resinicium bicolor. How exactly do they move minerals along their hyphae? Why do they choose to store them in crystals instead of keeping them in solution? And what does this mean for the way forests respond to challenges like climate change or soil degradation?

These are questions that keep me curious and motivated as a scientist. The more we learn, the clearer it becomes that fungi are not background players in the story of the forest. They’re central characters—quiet, hidden, and vital to the survival of the ecosystem.

The secret life of fungi is a story about connection. It’s about how the smallest organisms link the deepest rocks to the tallest trees. It’s about movement and transformation, about how nutrients flow through a system that looks still and silent from above.

For me, studying fungi has been a reminder to pay attention to what we can’t see. Because sometimes, the most powerful forces in nature are the ones quietly working out of sight, shaping the world beneath our feet.

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It sounds odd, I know. Rotting wood doesn’t seem glamorous. It’s broken, decayed, often slimy or brittle. But the fact is that a 100 year old tree that has fallen to the ground will impact the forest for another 100 years. In this way, as an impact factor, a tree’s life is twice as long as its time alive. But what I’ve learned from studying decomposition is that it’s one of the most important, most revealing processes in nature—and one that offers surprising lessons for life.

Life in Decay

When a tree falls and begins to decay, it doesn’t become lifeless. On the contrary, it becomes a bustling ecosystem. Fungi, bacteria, insects, and countless microorganisms move in. They feed on the wood, breaking down complex compounds and recycling nutrients back into the soil. Mosses and seedlings take root in the decomposing log. Even animals rely on this habitat—salamanders, beetles, and small mammals find food and shelter in this seemingly “dead” space.

What fascinates me is how decomposition isn’t a process of failure; it’s a process of transformation. The tree may be gone in its original form, but it lives on in countless other ways. Its structure supports life, its nutrients fuel growth, and its story continues through other organisms. It’s a vivid reminder that endings are rarely final—they’re often beginnings in disguise.

Patience and Persistence

Watching decomposition unfold is a lesson in patience. A log doesn’t break down overnight. It takes months, sometimes years, for fungi and microbes to do their work. In a world where we often want immediate results, observing a decaying log forces you to slow down, to notice gradual changes, and to appreciate the steady persistence of natural processes.

In my own work, I’ve found that this cadence translates to life outside the forest. Whether it’s conducting research, teaching students, or solving problems in daily life, progress often happens slowly, quietly, and incrementally. Decomposition reminds me that even when change isn’t dramatic or visible immediately, meaningful transformation is still happening.

Adaptation in Action

Rotting wood also teaches lessons about adaptation. The organisms that inhabit decaying logs are specialists—they’ve evolved to survive in conditions that would be inhospitable to others. Fungi can digest tough cellulose, insects can navigate compact tunnels, and bacteria thrive in moist, low-light environments.

This adaptability is inspiring. Life finds a way, even in the most challenging circumstances. It’s a lesson that applies broadly: resilience isn’t about avoiding hardship—it’s about finding ways to thrive within it, adjusting strategies, and using available resources to keep moving forward.

Interconnectedness

One of the most remarkable things about decomposition is how interconnected everything is. No single organism drives the process alone. Fungi break down wood fibers, which bacteria then further process. Insects help fragment material, spreading spores and accelerating decomposition. The nutrients released support surrounding plants, which in turn feed herbivores, and so on.

This web of interactions reminds me of human communities and ecosystems alike. We are all part of networks, relying on each other in ways we might not immediately see. Resilience often depends on collaboration, shared effort, and recognizing that even small contributions matter.

Seeing Value in the Overlooked

Rotting wood is a perfect metaphor for resilience because it reminds us that value often exists in unexpected places. We tend to focus on the new, the shiny, or the obvious, but nature thrives in the overlooked corners. By paying attention to decay, to the humble, “broken” pieces of life, we can see opportunity and growth where others might see waste or failure.

This perspective has shaped how I approach challenges in my own life. When things don’t go as planned, when a project falters, or when circumstances feel “ruined,” I try to remember the lesson of the fallen log. There is potential in every situation—if you observe carefully, adapt, and remain patient, growth can emerge from decay.

A Personal Reflection

I still remember one late autumn walk when I stopped to examine a log covered in mushrooms and moss. I watched ants navigating the grooves, fungi slowly spreading across the surface, and seedlings pushing upward through the decaying bark. At first, it seemed ordinary—just a dead tree. But then I realized how much life, adaptation, and resilience was packed into that single log.

It struck me that resilience isn’t always dramatic or loud. It’s subtle. It’s quiet persistence, incremental growth, and transformation that may not be immediately visible. Decomposition, in its slow, steady way, captures this perfectly.

The hidden life of rotting wood has changed the way I see forests, ecosystems, and even human challenges. Decay is not failure—it’s transformation. Patience, adaptability, interconnectedness, and finding value in unexpected places are lessons that decomposition teaches effortlessly.

Next time you walk through a forest and notice a fallen log, don’t dismiss it as waste. Take a closer look. Observe the fungi, insects, and seedlings thriving there. You might see resilience in action and be reminded that even in what seems like an ending, life—and opportunity—continues.

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Discovering the Hidden Kingdom

The first time I truly noticed fungi, I was walking through a forest on a rainy afternoon. I stopped to examine a fallen log, expecting to see the usual moss and insects. Instead, I found a web of tiny white threads weaving through the wood. Those threads were mycelium—the hidden “root system” of fungi. What struck me most was that this invisible network was everywhere, silently connecting trees, recycling nutrients, and supporting entire ecosystems.

It was like discovering a hidden city beneath the forest floor. And suddenly, I realized that there was so much more to nature than I had ever imagined. That moment reignited my curiosity. It reminded me why I had fallen in love with biology in the first place: the world is endlessly complex, full of surprises, and waiting to be explored.

Lessons in Patience and Observation

Fungi don’t always reveal themselves immediately. You have to look closely, observe patiently, and sometimes wait for the right conditions—moisture, temperature, or time of year. Studying them taught me to slow down, to pay attention to details I might otherwise overlook.

This lesson carried over into my research and teaching. Observing fungi reminded me that curiosity is not about rushing to an answer; it’s about noticing patterns, asking questions, and being willing to explore uncertainty. Fungi, in a way, are patient teachers. They show up on their own schedule, forcing you to slow down and engage with the process rather than the outcome.

Fungi and the Future of the Planet

Beyond their personal significance to me, fungi may hold keys to solving some of the world’s biggest challenges. They are ecological powerhouses, capable of breaking down complex organic matter, supporting soil health, and even mitigating climate change. Mycelium networks recycle nutrients in ways that other organisms can’t, creating fertile soil and supporting biodiversity.

But fungi might do even more than that. Researchers are exploring how fungi can be used to create sustainable materials, from packaging to building products, replacing plastics and other environmentally harmful substances. Certain fungal species can help clean up polluted environments or even assist in carbon sequestration. In short, fungi are quietly shaping the future of sustainability—and we are only beginning to understand their potential.

Curiosity Leads to Connection

One of the things I love most about fungi is how they connect everything. Mycelium literally links trees and plants in underground networks, allowing them to share nutrients and communicate stress signals. It is obvious to a fungal biologist that the “big scenes” of the forest soil and connections underground from the movie Avatar were ideas taken from the real world of mycorrhizal fungi. Mycorrhizae are the symbiotic structures of plants and fungus that connect plants of the same species and different species to each other. In studying fungi, I realized that science itself is connected in a similar way. Curiosity leads to observation, which leads to questions, which lead to experiments, and eventually to understanding.

Fungi reminded me that connections are everywhere—between organisms, ecosystems, and even disciplines. They encouraged me to look for patterns, to make connections between biology, ecology, and human systems. And they reminded me that curiosity isn’t just about seeking knowledge; it’s about building understanding and relationships across the world around us.

Making Science Accessible

Part of what excites me about fungi is how approachable they can be. You don’t need a lab coat or a Ph.D. to appreciate a mushroom or marvel at a mycelium network. You just need to look closely, ask questions, and be willing to learn. That accessibility is powerful. It’s a reminder that science doesn’t have to be intimidating. Scientific thinking can belong to everyone, whether you’re a student, a farmer, or just someone walking through the woods.

I often encourage students and colleagues to explore fungi as a way of reigniting their own curiosity. You don’t have to memorize Latin names or publish research papers to benefit. Simply observing, sketching, or noting fungal growth patterns can deepen your understanding of ecosystems and sharpen your powers of observation and critical thinking.

Fungi as a Metaphor for Life

Beyond biology and ecology, fungi are a metaphor for resilience, adaptation, and creativity. They thrive in unexpected places, break down what others consider waste or unusable, and create opportunities for growth and renewal. The old expression is that every living thing in the worId is fungus food at some point. In life and in work, we can learn from fungi: to be adaptable, patient, and open to the hidden networks that sustain us.

They also remind us that small, quiet processes can have enormous impacts. Just because something is unseen or overlooked doesn’t mean it isn’t powerful. Fungi are proof that paying attention to the unnoticed, nurturing curiosity, and embracing complexity can lead to remarkable discoveries.

Fungi saved my curiosity by showing me a world I hadn’t noticed, teaching me patience, and reminding me that connections matter. They might also save the planet, offering solutions to environmental challenges and inspiring sustainable innovation.

For anyone feeling disconnected from science, or overwhelmed by the size of the problems we face, fungi offer a simple but profound lesson: slow down, observe closely, stay curious, and look for connections. The smallest organisms can have the biggest impact, and the same goes for our curiosity and engagement with the world around us.

Exploring fungi has been a journey, and it continues to shape the way I see nature, education, and the possibilities for the future. If a humble mushroom can spark wonder and reveal solutions to global challenges, imagine what your own curiosity might uncover.

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The phrase “affordability is access” isn’t just a slogan. It’s a guiding truth. If working families can’t afford to attend, then access is an illusion. It’s not enough to have an open admissions policy if tuition costs are still a barrier. For many students, especially those juggling jobs, children, or financial hardship, even a small increase in tuition can be the deciding factor between going to school and giving up the dream.

Education Shouldn’t Be a Luxury

I’ve spent enough time walking campus hallways, talking to students at orientation tables, and sitting in on foundation scholarship decisions to know how close to the edge many students live. Some come to school hungry. Some are housing-insecure. Many work full-time jobs or multiple part-time gigs while trying to complete their coursework.

For them, a few hundred dollars in added tuition or fees isn’t minor—it’s a crisis. It means more hours at work, less time to study, and a greater chance they won’t finish what they started. When we raise tuition, even modestly, we send a message that higher education is still something to be earned only after someone proves they can afford it. That is not what community colleges were created to be.

Our mission is different. We are supposed to be the most accessible and equitable part of the higher education system. We are supposed to say “yes” to those who’ve heard “no” too many times. And holding the line on tuition is part of that promise.I have been proud to be a president that “held the line” against raising tuition at our community college for at least seven years. We also held the line against asking taxpayers for more dollars (for eight years), which can be a burden to local families. This position of “holding the line” protected the people we serve: the local community and our students from the excesses of higher education. 

The Real Cost of Dropping Out

There’s a dangerous myth in higher education that says small tuition increases don’t really affect enrollment or outcomes. But anyone who’s ever worked in a community college knows that’s not true. The real cost isn’t just measured in enrollment numbers—it’s measured in dreams deferred, degrees unfinished, and potential left untapped.

When a student drops out because they can’t afford tuition, we all lose. That student loses opportunity. Their family loses financial stability. Our communities lose skilled workers, future leaders, and engaged citizens. The cost of dropouts—socially, economically, even morally—is far higher than any amount we gain from raising tuition.

I’ve seen students come back to college years later and tell me, “I never wanted to leave, but I just couldn’t afford it.” That should never be the story. It’s our job to prevent it, not rationalize it.

Financial Discipline with a Purpose

Of course, I understand the realities of running a college. Budgets are tight. Costs go up. State support is a battle each year. As a college president and academic officer, I’ve had to make hard financial decisions. Freezing tuition isn’t always easy. It requires prioritizing needs, cutting that which is necessary, and sometimes saying ‘no’ to good ideas so we can say yes to the most important ones. 

Community colleges often discuss the funding of programs. This is crucial. But the physical plant of colleges also matter. Capital improvement is essential, and some of this comes in a form that students do not even see. HVAC systems are very expensive, and there is an expectation that they should work well. Enormous resources are spent on simply temperature, humidity and fresh air control systems. A friend once told me that with buildings, it is all about the roofs. The roofs must be attended to immediately and completely, otherwise the building is in jeopardy. These capital issues do not even begin to touch the modernization and positive-feeling of the classrooms. To do this kind of deferred maintenance work requires millions of dollars, in big chunks. Since this does not come from the state in the necessary proportions, colleges are often left on their own to modernize and repair. If an institution has no buffer in the budget to do so, they risk viability if they become over-extended. These needs of the college, however, cannot be the excuse for never-ending tuition increases.

Education is a Public Good

At the heart of all this is a belief I’ve carried with me throughout my career: education is a public good. It’s not a commodity to be priced at market rates. It’s an investment we make together—as a community, a state, and a country—because the returns benefit everyone.

When students graduate from college, they earn more, they give back more, and they lead more. They become nurses, electricians, teachers, lab techs, small business owners. Their children grow up seeing college as part of the future, not just a dream. That cycle of uplift and opportunity is what built the American middle class. It’s what still sustains towns and cities today.

If we let the cost of community college climb too high, we risk breaking that cycle. We risk telling working families, especially those on the margins, that education is no longer meant for them. That’s not just a policy failure—it’s a social justice offense.

The Path Forward

Holding the line on tuition isn’t just a financial decision—it’s a leadership choice. It’s a statement of values. It’s a commitment to the students who trust us with their hopes and time and money. And it’s a recognition that the strength of our colleges depends not on how much we charge, but how deeply we serve.

I will always advocate for affordability—not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. Because every student who walks through our doors deserves a fair shot. Because working families shouldn’t have to sacrifice their future just to afford a better one.

And because access without affordability isn’t access at all.

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I believe community colleges are special places. We serve everyone who walks through our doors—from recent high school grads and adult learners to veterans, single parents, and career changers. But what truly defines a community college isn’t just who we serve. It’s how we serve. And that often starts with how deeply we engage with the community around us.

Service is not a “nice to have” in education—it’s a necessity. It helps students grow, helps colleges stay grounded, and helps entire communities thrive. That spirit of service is something we must protect, nurture, and build upon.

Service is Part of the Learning Experience

Over the years, I’ve seen that some of the most profound learning happens outside the classroom. Students learn by doing—by applying their knowledge in real-world settings, by interacting with people whose lives are different from theirs, and by confronting challenges that don’t come with easy answers.

Community engagement is education in action. When students volunteer at a food pantry, tutor local children, or organize a clothing drive, they’re not just helping others. They’re developing empathy. They’re learning how to solve problems, how to lead, and how to be part of something bigger than themselves. These are lessons that stay with them far beyond their time at college.

I’ve had students tell me that their experience helping with a local housing project changed their entire career path. I’ve seen nursing students develop a deeper sense of purpose after volunteering at community health events. These moments of service aren’t distractions from their education—they’re part of what makes it meaningful.

Building Trust Through Action

In today’s world, trust in institutions—especially public ones—can feel shaky. People want to know that their colleges, schools, and governments actually care about them. That’s why community engagement is about more than outreach; it’s about building relationships.

When a college consistently shows up to help—whether through toy drives (like that of Project Self-Sufficiency in Newton NJ), free health screenings, or workforce training programs—it sends a message: we are part of this place. We care about what happens here. We’re not just educators—we’re neighbors, volunteers, and partners.

Colleges That Give Also Grow

Some might argue that community engagement takes resources away from academics. I’ve found the opposite to be true. When a college invests in service and community partnerships, it strengthens its foundation. People notice when a college shows up—not just when it’s recruiting, but when it’s giving. This can often be achieved through Service Learning opportunities. These academic initiatives are not volunteer projects. These service learning programs tie class learning outcomes to service-in-action. It is deeply academic, and community minded. 

Service programs like Service Learning, help colleges grow, not just in enrollment, but in reputation, resilience, and relevance. A college known for service is a college people want to be a part of—whether as students, faculty, or community supporters. That reputation builds loyalty, opens funding opportunities, and creates a culture that attracts people who want to make a difference.

I’ve seen this firsthand. At institutions I’ve led, community partnerships have led to new programs, new donors, and stronger retention. Students who feel connected to the community—and to each other—are more likely to stay, to succeed, and to give back. It’s a cycle worth investing in.

A Culture That Starts at the Top

I’ve always believed that leadership isn’t about titles—it’s about modeling the values you want to see. If we want a college to embrace service, then service must start with leadership. That means being present, being involved, and valuing the kind of work that doesn’t always come with fanfare.

Some of my proudest moments as a leader weren’t behind a desk—they were out in the community, and sometimes service inside the college community. Picking up trash at a park with students. Feeding community members or students with food insecurity. Loading food boxes into trunks during a holiday drive. Speaking at a local nonprofit’s event to say “thank you” for their partnership. Those aren’t small things—they’re the foundation of something bigger.

Educating Citizens, Not Just Students

At its best, community college education is about more than credentials earned. It’s about preparing people to be thoughtful, engaged citizens—people who see service not as a one-time act, but as a lifelong value. If our students leave with that mindset, we’ve done something right.

That’s why I believe so deeply in the spirit of service. Not just because it helps others, but because it shapes who we become. We see selfishness on display all the time in the world. Service means we move outside of that self-focus to be with others; be with them in ways that serve them, not us. It reminds us that we are connected. That our success is bound up in the success of others. That education is a public good—and with that comes a public responsibility.

Looking Ahead

There’s a lot of uncertainty in higher education these days. Budgets are tight. Needs are growing. But in times like these, service isn’t something to cut—it’s something to lean into.

When we engage with our communities, we find purpose. We find partnerships. And we find hope.

In every college at which I’ve worked, I’ve seen that when we serve others, we strengthen ourselves. The spirit of service is not just part of our mission—it’s part of who we are.

Let’s keep showing up. Let’s keep giving. And let’s keep building a future rooted in compassion, commitment, and community.

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