I am Moss
A meditation on structural integrity, ancient patience, and arriving in the prime of life
I am moss.
I grow unimpeded by time or circumstance. I grow slowly, stealthily in the shadow, creeping up the roots of ancient pine, oak, birch. I care not whose barky skin I climb, so long as I have access to the cool, damp space provided by the canvas of their trunks. I grow lavishly upon the surface of rocks long-since forgotten, tossed by ancient glacial melts, dashed upon the edges of meandering brooks, tracing the curving edges above the flowing water.
As moss, I am moist, shadowy and soft. Moisture collecting is my super-power. I gather the damp and the longer I stay and grow and climb upon the canvas of rock or tree or edge-of-brook, the more I turn the canvas below me to soil. The longer I stay, the deeper the soil beneath me becomes until slowly friendly ferns and flowers and even trees can grow upon my fleshy carpet, taking nourishment from the root-protecting shelter I provide. Have you ever seen a giant boulder with a hilarious headdress of green? There I am, creating future refuge for wayward forest seeds.
I am moss.
But so too, am I the now-unmovable boulder nestled at the curve in the mountain stream, once jostled, tossed and turned by churning glacial waters. I have been here long enough to count eons. I could narrate an epic poem about the drama of tumbling mountain rocks beneath an avalanche, the shaping and reshaping of hillsides with spring monsoons, the rise and fall of empires of different species of tree and bud, fern and moss. And speaking of moss, due to my stoic stillness I have now received the profound gift of trust by that fluffy green companion who grows in and out of my every crevasse, tickling the expanse of my more exposed and once-buffeted exterior, the previously sand-blasted edges from ancient waterfalls, the side once-polished by the slow grinding weight of the snail-paced but definitively moving gargantuan glacier. I have now achieved the great, significant silence and stillness of being ravished by moss. She crowns me with her graceful softness, disguises my rougher edges, and I can feel that slowly she is deepening, opening to welcome willful seeds to grow upon me where no growth was previously allowable. I am, therefore, now unspeakably joyful to quietly proclaim:
I am moss-covered.
But so too, am I stately, ancient Birch. Once, long, long ago before any of you were even born yet, a scarlet cardinal was winging through the forest clutching a spray of birch blossom in the early spring to bedeck the nest for his lady wife, and on his way to the preferred nook high in a nearby oak, a gust of wind came billowing down from the mountain top. Preferring to preserve his wings, he dropped the branch from high in the canopy so he could land and weather the sudden spring thunderstorm. But that spray of birch blossom spiraled down through the air, sailing slightly sideways in the gust of wind, and came to rest amongst the detritus of old leaves on an awkward little edge of a rushing mountain brook. There it stayed, forgotten by it’s scarlet harvester and unnoticed by anyone else except a lone bobcat, who sniffing the scent of bird, nosed it up the hill slightly from the brook, urinated on it and wandered away in search of more reliable prey.
The year went by. More brown leaves drifted down from high above in the mature forest, many rainstorms pummeled the now dead-looking branch, but served to push the branch further down into the fresh compost of yesteryear’s leaves. Winter sealed the deal by pressing the branch firmly down into the soil with it’s predictable white weight, so that once spring deigned to return, the wee seeds that had the most access to the moist soil spurted slender roots. Once grasping the rich soil, the teeny seed burst out its first wavering, tiny branch, and then two more little branches appeared, so tiny the bobcat wouldn’t have noticed if he’d happened by that day.
The years passed by, storms raged, two of the seedlings who had been weaker to begin with shriveled and faded, returning their nutrients to the mycelium to donate to their stronger brethren, and the remaining birch launched it’s sovereign campaign to reach as high as possible up into the canopy above. Titillated by the tremulous tenor of Barred Owls calling to one another on fortunate evenings, Birch uncoiled long branches to reach the sky and offer perch to her wing-ed companions. Dazzled daily by the deliciously delicate dalliance of Hermit Thrush describing the best spots for nourishment, Birch grew taller still. But that scarlet scatterer who seeded her in this location had chosen a strange spot, and Birch was forced to grow to the sky with a curving arch instead of a straight reach. But she was proud of her curve, her internal structural integrity able to withstand any gallant storms that might threaten her hidden vale.
All had been well with Birch these many years, her trunk growing in strength every year, able to bend and sway with wayward winds, branches extending where old ones became broken by circumstances out of her control. One time, a young bear had sought refuge high in her branches, just to see if she could climb that high, but learn a lesson did Bear and Birch - for Bear was too heavy, even at that young age, and crashing down came Bear and branch. Another time, a wildly heavy winter was followed by ferocious spring storms and the small mountain stream became a torrent, flinging jagged stones against Birch’s bark, searing lacerations into her smooth skin. But time and patience healed those wounds, leaving scars for passers-by to wonder about in the far future.
But Birch knew she’d finally arrived to the category of “ripe” and “old” in the best ways possible when friendly damp green moss began to overtake the skirts of her trunk that tasted the ground where her roots swelled and curved to reach deep into that ancient, nutrient rich forest soil. Like a curtain of green modestly covering her lower quarters, Birch was bedecked with thick, rich moss, emerald-green and glowing in the shadow of the northern side, uphill from the stream below. Small tendrils had begun slowly to snake up her northern back, the green stark against her graying but once-vivid white trunk.
Sighing with the pleasure of such companionship as moss offers, Birch felt, appropriately, now I have arrived, meaning, arrived in the prime of life.
There is a richness, a confidence, a bejewelment one feels when bequeathed with the blessing of cooling moss growing gorgeously up one’s trunk. One no longer has to shove out branches to proclaim or secure one’s place in the dance of the forest. One no longer has to plunge deeper tap roots into the soil to protect against future droughts, one’s nourishment is secured, protected, nurtured and nourished by the cooling, quenching growth of the moss. One has, as Birch says, arrived, with center and fringe of oneself intact, albeit transformed by the circumstances of the daily battle of forest dwelling.
I am moss.
But so too, am I moss covered stone, moss bejeweled birch.
If this piece resonated with you, consider subscribing to receive future writings on presence, creative sovereignty, and the art of turning direct experience into wisdom.
Want to hear this piece read aloud? I recorded an audio reading of “I am Moss”—complete with the quiet space and presence that birthed it. You can listen to the audio recording for free over on my Patreon page: