Hello, dear readers,
I know I’m not the only one who thinks about moss.
At this time of year, it’s pretty bleak where I live so my eye is drawn to the beautiful patches of green that adorn trees, buildings, benches and random blocks of cement.
Moss’s good friend, lichen, also happily provides some interest for the eye, often jauntily protruding from a tree trunk.
Moss isn’t busy with a full calendar and a to-do list. Moss grows on its own timeline. Moss watches seasons, slowly, as they pass at a different pace to us.
I stopped my deadly-treadly ride the other day to capture some photos of the frosty moss. This was before it was covered in snow (it’s now nearly 20 cm thick). It was a lovely, freeing experience to be on my bike again.
It’s so impressive the moss survives the extreme cold, and months of being buried under the cold, white snow. It’s such a wonderful sight when the snow melts, to see vivid greens, as often the grass stays brown for some time in the spring, until the weather warms.
One of my favourite things is walking on soft moss in bare feet—those days don’t happen for me until summer but the springiness is like the deepest-pile carpet underfoot. I think I love it because I never had moss where I grew up. The temperatures were far too warm along the Murray River in South Australia—and far too dry. Everything was crispy, crunchy and sharp; watch out for the bindi-eyes and three-corner-Jacks! The moisture that softens nature disappears straight away, sucked into the vast blue sky by the harsh sun. Winter was a bit softer, but nothing like the soft, green summers here on Åland.
I remember loving visiting my Melbourne-based grandmother, Nanna we called her, because she was wonderful, but also because her backyard was softer than ours. She had big eucalyptus trees that shed lots of bark and a lovely water feature, a little min-waterfall surrounded by moss and baby tears. Everything was delicate and moist, at least that’s how I remember it. Melbourne gets more rain than the riverside town I grew up near. Enough that I remember the coolness of Nanna’s plants and softness of her groundcover. Refreshing, green, soft.
Contrasts have always fascinated me. I now live in this place of extreme seasonal contrasts. As I sit here, now surrounded by snow-covered streets, my family in Australia have just endured a run of 40+ degrees Celcius. I’m not sure I like either extreme, but my choices led me here. What I’m working towards is a life that’s flexible enough that I can be in either place at the best times of the year.
Unlike moss, I have a deep love of travel. I don’t run on moss time, clinging to my rock and growing slowly, ever-so-slowly breaking down the rock, cement, or dead tree under me. I’m more flighty. Ready to pack my little bag and fly off to fun, exotic and wonderful places. Another thing I can learn from moss is to be colourful and bold! In words and clothing, in movement and my plans for the future. I don’t have to hunker down and be soft and bold, I can move out into the world and write for the moss, the quiet and wonderful natural world that softly whispers to me.
I’m off to frolic in the winter landscape. To whisper to the moss (if I can find it under the snow), to hug a birch, to sauna bathe—my way of travelling when there are no travel plans afoot.
Stay well,
Lisa x
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