September 11

All summer I’ve been watching the mosses come and go. When it rains, they appear. When the land dries out, the mosses disappear. There’s a patch my eyes never fail to observe at the juncture of the upper and low paths I walk. Visually, I encounter tightly clustered green towers—green bodies of light that seem to glow. Each separate moss with its fragile stem and leaves is packed against all the other mosses, creating a lush green mat that hides the separate identity of the individual moss.

Seeing invites touching. I have sometimes stepped on soft mosses. I have bent down to touch the surface but I have never entered into their domain as I now feel called to do.  I carefully snuggle my index finger down through the softness, surprised that it sinks an inch or more into the green before it finds earth. The mosses close around me and I sense I have been accepted. I linger for the length of a few breaths, enjoying the feeling of togetherness.

I cannot express the delight I feel as part of me disappears into this secret invisible world. Time suspends itself as I dwell in wonder. Between the top of the moss and earth is an unimaginable world. When I draw my finger out, there’s a small hole that I close behind me. A gate, when opened, should always be closed, the elders say. Across from the moss patch, several day blues, encouraged by the rains, have emerged. Their color is a rich counterpoint to the bright green. My optic nerves dance with joy.

How do mosses survive during long periods of drought, I wonder? How do they quickly recover after even a little rain? What is their secret to survival?  I am reminded of an enormous tree I spent time with in Florida—a giant live oak whose branches were covered in resurrection ferns. The ferns were curled and brown making the whole tree look unhealthy—until it rained. Next day the ferns unfurled, turned bright green and the tree came alive. Resurrection ferns can live for up to 100 years without added moisture. What appears to us a mystery is the intelligence of nature at work—the same intelligence that created us, created universes out of the substance of love.

What can humans learn from mosses and ferns? Rain is a kind of love. The human heart runs the risk of becoming dry and brittle—even numb when there’s too much destruction, too much alienation and distrust, too much heart-break. Our hearts are in danger of closing. Especially now, closing our hearts would be a disastrous response. What we need, like the plants, is the capacity to adapt to the conditions we find ourselves in. Unlike the plants, we aren’t dependent on an external action to bring us back to life. We don’t have to go dormant to survive. We already have what is needed inside our hearts—the capacity to love, beginning with ourselves.

When the heart closes in bitterness, everything is lost. With the moisture of love, we can resurrect like the mosses and ferns as towers of light and life. Our world has changed forever, but it is not too late to love. As paleontologist and Christian Mystic, Teilhard de Chardin said, “The universe is made of love.” That means each one of us is made of love. When we deny that reality, we deny ourselves and each other. We can choose to live this substance of love. Our mutual survival and well-being depend on it.