(This observation was written in an Airbnb that seems invested in the minimalist, urban professional look, in the otherwise moss-rich city of Portland, Oregon. The view directly out the window is what matters most to my early morning musing.)
Outside there is a small patch of (unidentified) moss and lunularia liverwort, at the edge of the manicured sod, accidental. A mini garden of forest vibe, quietly asserting itself in the unnoticed dirt under the stairs. Unconquered by gravel or mulch, it’s a welcome mat for my feet, in this otherwise very linear and grey built environment. The moss and liverwort form at the interstices, where the careful arrangement of planted lawn, gravel, and dark mulch laid out in square-edged strips, gives way to curve and slope. I hope they will be welcomed and encouraged once they are seen.
Lunularia cruciata liverwort
And I’m thinking about how we sometimes have to assert ourselves surreptitiously, quietly claiming what we know as our nourishing substrate, in spite of not being part of the design or the engineered layout of a place. We find what we need and grow, quietly and beautifully, offering our softness to those who can honor it with their own soft hearts and bare feet. The threat of distrust or misunderstanding never goes away, unless we are embedded in a large, conducive ecosystem of forest. Someone may decide to pave over or remove us any day, heedless of our contribution because they’ve been taught that we signal damage, neglect, rather than restoration and source. But there is hope and promise in our chloroplast-rich cells, our tiny leaves and lobes, our ancient adaptability.
