I stood, transfixed. The thick moss mesmerized
me.
I was without thought.
Without words.
Without aim.
The carpet of moss had cast a spell on my heart.
It had caught me unaware and gently ushered me into deep presence.
I was faintly aware of a cold breeze on the
exposed skin of my face and hands. I reflexively tucked my fists into the
flannel of my coat pockets.
And I just became still.
Still within.
Still mind.
I was without a task, agenda, deadline.
My eyes caressed the scene, roaming right to
left, left to right.
Across lumps and bumps.
Over textures and colors.
Then my brain kicked in. I realized that I was
eyeing a nurse log: a downed tree whose decay provides rich nutrients for other
life.
Upon which ferns sprout.
Along which moss spreads.
And I began to think, later at home, about what
“nursing” means:
Care.
Tenderness.
Nurturance.
Healing.
Support.
A seeking for quietude. An abidance with all
life. A restoration to wholeness.
* *
*
That ol’ nurse log lying there so mossy and
sprouty just seemed to find a home within me. It’s still there now offering a
haven of life in the center of the garden—though nighttime has passed and I am
inside at home the next day—and it’s still there now in the moist garden of my
heart growing all sorts of verdant surprises.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2018 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
