It's a nice time of year to be a moss in northern California and a poem anywhere. April is National Poetry Month, and it is bringing showers to the thirsty mosses as well. Like poetry, mosses document a moment, a place, a feeling, a condition, and can change how we see the world. I just finished reading Robin Wall Kimmerer's book, Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses, and it both humbled me and made me aware of our responsibility to the earth in this temporary life of ours.
They can only grow and spread when wet. The mosses welcome the rain, mouths open, arms outstretched, but I don't quite do that. With duck boots, a long raincoat, and my umbrella as preparation, and my wallet, keys and phone/camera stowed away, I began my daily walk, this time with an eye out for different kinds of mosses. Apparently, there are hundreds. I saw more than usual, and because of how wet they were, many open to the sky. I am no bryologist (moss biologist) as Kimmerer is, but I tried to be an active observer, and I think I saw at least more than one. Gathering Moss notes how many different kinds of life need the moss and by using it, give thanks to it. It's a book that balances science and spirituality, factual information and gratitude, stories and poetry.
The book points out that mosses contain tiny worlds. A miniature version of our world with tiny creatures, reproduction, cloning, water gain and loss, and specialized properties that offer help to others and need nurturing themselves. With connections in mind, these were the visual poems I saw.
Droplets on the open moss.
They can only grow and spread when wet. The mosses welcome the rain, mouths open, arms outstretched, but I don't quite do that. With duck boots, a long raincoat, and my umbrella as preparation, and my wallet, keys and phone/camera stowed away, I began my daily walk, this time with an eye out for different kinds of mosses. Apparently, there are hundreds. I saw more than usual, and because of how wet they were, many open to the sky. I am no bryologist (moss biologist) as Kimmerer is, but I tried to be an active observer, and I think I saw at least more than one. Gathering Moss notes how many different kinds of life need the moss and by using it, give thanks to it. It's a book that balances science and spirituality, factual information and gratitude, stories and poetry.
The book points out that mosses contain tiny worlds. A miniature version of our world with tiny creatures, reproduction, cloning, water gain and loss, and specialized properties that offer help to others and need nurturing themselves. With connections in mind, these were the visual poems I saw.
Between the stones where the water collects and holds.
Alongside concrete.
Creeping in rough asphalt.
Around the edges of the bark.
Sidewalk mosses. We carry them around the city, spreading it as we walk.
"The most ubiquitous of mosses, urban or otherwise, is Bryum argenteum, the Silvery Bryum" (92).
Another in the cracks.
Lichen moves there first to roughen and prepare the way; moss follows.
At Great Stone Face Park.
Across the street from the park, a neighborhood. This wall has probably stood there since the 1920s.
Lichen and moss live together in harmony.
A longtime resident.
A moss island, with a lichen sea.
A few more intertwined friends.
It takes years, decades, sometimes centuries to create a beautiful moss forest. Like lichen, it can't be propagated. After reading Kimmerer's book I now have second thoughts about the current trend for "moss balls" in the landscape. Moss is ripped from trees and sold to nurseries for this. It is not a sustainable practice.
Kimmerer's personal stories set loose many questions. I wonder if we started from the ground up, like evolution, acknowledged these tiny plants with respect and care, if this would open us to respecting, caring and acknowledging beings not like ourselves, ultimately leading us to seeing each other fully and treating all life with compassion and respect. It's a big ask, I know. But it starts small.
Kimmerer's personal stories set loose many questions. I wonder if we started from the ground up, like evolution, acknowledged these tiny plants with respect and care, if this would open us to respecting, caring and acknowledging beings not like ourselves, ultimately leading us to seeing each other fully and treating all life with compassion and respect. It's a big ask, I know. But it starts small.
This small rock has been in my yard for about twenty years and has only just begun to grow moss. I feel fortunate.
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