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.
(Dedicated to the fabulously Earthy, artsy Chelsea T. Tran.)
(orig. posted 3/2/18)
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2020 Jennifer J. Wilhoit/TEALarbor stories. All Rights Reserved."
