Bristles of Velvet
It has been over two years now that we started our weekly walks in the woods. Sometimes we talk about this and that, sometimes we walk in silence. Truth be told, I have wondered if one day I would get bored, filled with the indifference that familiarity brings.
Today seems to be that day. We have been in these parts of the woods several times, we know the bends in the walks, where to catch a glimpse of which house, where the trails get muddy, and the best views to the water. The snow has melted revealing the brown of winter all around us. We can walk recklessly, knowing there is no ice on the ground that will trick us into falling, taking care only in the places where there is still water from the rains of a few days ago. Brown stems of the Summersweet, empty but for their seed heads, flank the path on either side, while beyond, grey lines of tree trunks stretch on forever, some of them eerily aglow with lichen. Endless lines of grey and brown as far as my eyes can see, broken only by a few patches of green, up in the air, where some pine trees frame a bold blue sky.
It feels monotonous, a repetition of lines, of colors, of habits. Not even imagining the fragrant white blooms of the Summersweet in July helps to alleviate the boredom. Maybe it is time to find a new hobby, or perhaps, I should only bring with me my intent to exercise, to breathe the outside air once a week. My mind tries to make up for the stillness outside and starts wandering on multiple tracks: seeds to order for my vegetable boxes, plans for the week’s meals, possible topics of conversation.
Growing at the foot of an oak, I almost miss it. Unaware that winter has put a temporary halt on growth, it glows a startling lime green. Unapologetically, defiantly green. I find myself squatting to reach and feel it, a perfect blanket of moss, rising vertically up from the ground, conquering the furrowed trunk of the tree. It looks so plush and cozy, that I am almost scared to touch it, as if even the lightest brush of my finger would disturb its flawlessly groomed surface. Traveling only a few inches, my finger grazes against thousands of leaves that go to create that velvetiness. It looks and feels like a miniature fairyland, so easy to imagine magical creatures living within, peeping from behind the naked furrowed cliffs. There is a spirit of rebelliousness hidden in this softness, as it flaunts its riches when the woods are spare, dares to be green when all is grey and brown. And not just a single shade of green: the moss contains an entire spectrum, from the yellow of an unripe lemon to the tawny tones of an olive, to the deeper green of cilantro leaves. Fresh, moist and soft, it is everything that winter isn’t, a little lush kingdom holding its own.
That fresh greenness pops up unexpectedly all through the woods, seemingly mocking the cold. It caps a chopped tree, a perfect moss dome on top of a cut trunk, managing to look both solemn and ludicrous at the same time. It clothes a fallen branch on an icy stream. It shows up as little cushions, cheekily poking their heads through fallen pine needles, refusing to be shrouded by them. Each moss cushion is perfectly smooth, as if groomed for hours by a Japanese master gardener. What is it about moss that says, touch me? Low to the ground, my knees nestled in fallen leaves, I automatically extend my hand, and am somewhat startled. The cushions may look velvety, but feel like soft bristles, as if nestling a baby hedgehog within. Ha, ha, they seem to say, fooled you!
A stone wall crosses the woods. All along its split face, run patterns of pale lichens, like inkblots spreading on wet cloth. The top of the wall is draped with little area rugs of moss. It is only by getting near that I realize that each one is a little different from the other. There is one moss that grows rich and lush in deep rounded mounds, its leaves looking like miniature ferns. Here and there, the lichen peeps through these mounds, its pale cauliflower florets highlighting the flamboyant greenness of the ferny leaves. There is another tight mound next to this one, made of several types of mosses. One is lance-shaped, a second has flat shiny leaflets, and a third is almost feathery: all tightly woven together into one flawless pincushion. Further down the wall, there is yet another, looking shaggy and almost dry to the touch. It rests loosely on top of the wall, in contrast to the tight mounds of the others, the disheveled long-haired teenager, not caring to fit in with its perfectly groomed kin. A rebel within this family of rebels.
The woods are dotted with these little islands of green filling up cracks within rock faces, climbing tree trunks and growing when nothing else does. I feel full, filled with all the green that summer would not let me see. Filled with the defiance of the mosses, with the feistiness of bristles that pretend to be velvet, with the plushness within this bareness. Sometimes, magic comes and stares you in your face. Sometimes you have to bend low to discover.
