I stood, transfixed. The thick moss mesmerized me.
I was without thought.
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.
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:
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."