Moss

I have always had an affinity for trees, especially oaks. Oaks existed in the landscape of my childhood in Wisconsin and climbing them allowed me to escape into a world of my own, above the nettle and sandbur-laden earth. There is something about their size, their age-depicting density, the way their branches move outward and upward, like “arms in church to grateful sky” (beautiful turn of phrase borrowed from “Every thought a thought of you” by mewithoutYou).

Trees contain healing energy. Their deep groundedness can be accessed through touch. Resting one’s body against a tree allows the nervous system to regulate to this deeply rooted state. As I’ve weaved my way throughout 2025, making memorable passages through cemeteries, nature preserves, forests and farmlands, I have been drawn to the oldest, most gnarled trees and taken time to stop and touch and appreciate. This year, my eye -and my hand- have been drawn to other life-forms trees support. The colors, the textures, the intricate, often star-like patterns of moss.

Moss contain their own nurturing, grounding, healing energy. Moss are antiseptic. Moss are slow-growing and stress-tolerant. They lack roots, yet are able to live for decades, even centuries, on a variety of surfaces. Moss are resilient.

As I’ve considered what I need more of in my life over the coming year, I keep coming back to moss. The colors, the texture, the resilence. In 2026, may I be granted slow growth, stress resistance and appreciation for the beautiful intricacies found in natures’ simplicity.