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Moss - read: things I think after three whiskey sours

Moss - read: things I think after three whiskey sours

A rock doesn’t mourn when moss fails to grow on its face.

I think this about a millisecond before rolling my eyes and clicking my tongue at myself, the way I would hear my grandmother do when she was exhausted and exasperated.

Nature does nothing for me.

Well, at least it doesn’t do the things I think it’s supposed to. My nature must be defective.

Everyone I know who stands in the woods can hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon, if you will, and I’m just standing there checking for ticks in my armpits, and wiping the nature off my face.

I genuinely envy those that are inspired by a sunset.

And the last sunrise I saw had tequila in it.

When things would get hard then...there’s always a then...I would look to the trees.  So tall and steady and sure of themselves. They would listen and their leaves would cheer me on.

Now...there’s always a now...I’m mad at the trees. I asked them to promise to tell me which way to sway. 

That’s why I’m looking at moss.

We only see the intricacies in it’s design by looking at it through a microscope. 

What the hell is that about?  At least with a leaf, you get exactly what you see.

Not moss. When it breaks away from itself, moss will grow anew on on the forest floor, thriving by connecting with anything organic. Anything real.

Moss defies the idea that competition is the rule to success. They fill up the small spaces, taking only what they need to survive.

I’m mad at moss, too, for staying so small and being so resilient and for growing without needing me.

But it’s the rock that just sits here with me.  It lets the moss erode it, turning it back into sand while it protects the tree’s seeds from washing away.

Does the rock want to be a tree like I do?  Taking all the sun and drinking all the water?  Or is it ok with being the plinth on which moss can play its part as the martyr to the rest of nature?

The rock never gives ultimatums to moss, asking it to do more.

And the rock definitely doesn’t mourn when moss fails to grow on its face.

Running

Grandma

Grandma