I sat with my back against a thick tree yesterday, in the forest of White Clay Creek, brooding. I was in a foul mood. This is the time of the semester when my mind is filled with worry. Small concerns, like having to write a paper, for instance, compile and develop into huge anxieties that take over my life. It was comfortable day, the kind of day where you don’t even think about the weather. I tried to take my mind off of all of the work that was waiting for me at home. With a deep breath, I let my head fall back and looked up at the waving branches of the trees and then down at their mossy shadows that danced in front of me. I examined the crust on a log to my right; beautiful, light-green lichen garnished by tiny, tubular volcanoes with spongy, gold craters. For a moment I got lost in this little, layered world and I imagined being ant-sized and making a home out of one of the volcanoes. But then a gust of wind landed me back in reality. I usually go out in the forest with a clear mind, ready to take in everything. But yesterday, I was preoccupied; lost in a world, bigger than that of the lichen, that is filled with responsibilities. So I got up and started walking to try to clear my head.

Through the trees, I saw a fisherman with a long, white beard, knee deep in the water, with his pants rolled up so as not to get them wet. “You know, you shouldn’t have worn pants,” I wanted to tell him, “Waders would have been a much better choice. You should know that.” He seemed to be at ease as he waited there, looking down the creek, and in my discontented state, I wondered how that could be. I watched him for a short while, wanting him to catch something. But he didn’t, so I cursed him and moved on. Then, I saw two children across the water, a boy and a girl, scurrying down edge of the creek with their mother who was trying her best to stay close behind. “Hey slow down, you two!” she shouted quite emphatically. “Don’t hit your sister!” “Don’t splash your brother!” I remember thinking, “My god, how could anyone ever be a parent?” Their laughs echoed across the water as they hopped along the bank merrily. Even their mother showed a tired smile. I was irritated by their happiness, and I was frustrated by my irritation. Just the other day, in the same forest, I had a revelation during which I felt a profound connection with everything around me (see last journal) yet a few days later, there I was, unable to muster up even the slightest fondness for my fellow humans.

Disturbed, I left the bank and went back to my spot on the tree. I opened my collection of Mary Oliver poems, which I thought might help clear my mind, or at least put me in a better mood. I read a few poems before I landed on one called “Landscape,” which caught my eye.

“Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience?…

…Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.”

That last stanza shook me. I looked over at the moss I spotted earlier, then read it again. “…if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.” Curious, I stepped over the lichen log-world and headed back to my dorm to do some research.

A simple plant, moss lacks true roots but has a single-cell layer of rhizoids that are used for attachment and always prepared to absorb water. It is hardy, carrying “a botanical camel’s hump as it trudges through long stretches of aridity,” as Haskell puts it so eloquently in The Forest Unseen. Because of this, moss has the ability to grow and spread indefinitely. It is this resilience and readiness to take in what it needs to thrive that Oliver suggests is necessary to reflect. And now, I know that I too should take a lesson from the ancient moss and refuse to let the tough times in my life close the doors of my heart.