city moss thoughts

(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.

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.

what to say

Walking alone in the Hoh Rainforest, thinking and reflecting brought me to the following burst of thought. I put it here essentially unedited - all you need to know is it came from walking the Hoh River Trail, near sundown in October. It came of solitude and unrestrained ramblings of the mind, and I feel it’s time for less editing, more blunt speech.

I find myself increasingly fed up with the presumptions I absorbed due to the culture I was raised in . I can't figure out why they persist, because not only are they incorrect, they don't serve us. They cut us off from the very approaches that could heal our relationships on earth.

I'm not saying throw out Western science - but throw out the idea that there is one right way to understand, that rational empiricism is the undisputed path to the truth. And I'm not just saying there are ‘many paths’, but rather, there are truths that require a variety of listenings.

We have been taught to detach, detach, detach - and what does that give us? How does it benefit the living systems of the earth if we extract ourselves and claim an (artificial) separateness?

If anything, increased understanding of molecular biology and organic chemistry should give us more confirmation of our own integration into these immeasurably complex systems.

I feel a part of it - I am integral to the whole thing, and any attempt to hold me accountable to an opposing viewpoint based on my color, culture, or upbringing is simply another form of divide and conquer.

I won't be divided from this. I won't tolerate it anymore. My family is in the rivers and forests - my veins flow with the same logic and magic, my breath is all breath.

in which i go on about moss at some length

Mostly Leucolepis acanthoneuron, at Bloedel Reserve, Bainbridge Island, WA

It starts with walking slowly and looking down. An eye for green. In the forest, there are countless types of green - light, illuminated greens with sunshine filling them, greens of conifer, dark with the surface of so many needles, shiny greens of madrona and salal leaves, reflecting white brightness. Each tree, shrub, or vine has its own set of tones, and this makes the mosses distinctive and easy to spot in the underbrush. A plusher, glowier green sings there, an intensity of photosynthesis that testifies to the extreme speciality of the tiny plants. This higher wattage of greenness has an appeal for almost anyone walking in the forest, that emerald affirmation of lush plant life that makes you smile and feel welcomed: the forest rolls out the green carpet.

L. acanthoneuron with Plagiomnium insigne (upper left and around the edges) — *L. acanthoneuron* with *Plagiomnium insigne* (upper left and around the edges)

For many, this is enough, the carpet of green, the moss-hung trees filling out an ideal of forest, which in fact they are doing in the ecological sense. But I’m trying to explain engagement with specific mosses, mosses whose (Latin) names I’ve made the effort to learn by heart. Not just moss, but that moss right there, the one that looks like a miniature palm tree, or the one with smooth, relatively huge leaves (up to 8mm) that fills up and sparkles with water. They grow together, Leucolepis acanthoneuron and Plagiomnium insigne, but are extremely different. And these, as fascinating as they are, still full of mystery, do not capture my interest as much as the tiny soil ephemerals, the miniscule, translucent plants that spring up in crumbling soil, rock fall, tree rot and well-traveled trailside. They appear as no more than a dusting of green against the raw earth, and yet they are full sized plants, living out their maturity in complete, intricate, entrancing forms.

My earliest friend of this type was Fissidens. Examining my own garden and driveway, I’d found a variety of mosses (close to 20 species I can identify now, but this was earlier.) On the hillside below the house, amidst stones lining the stairsteps, there was a patch of exposed soil no bigger than a child’s hand. Green grew there, and I crouched with a lens to look. The individual plants grew out and pointed down, flat and smooth. They were incomprehensibly small. I made a rough sketch, plucked a sample and measured; “each leaf 1mm on a sprig of 3mm,” I wrote in my moss book. How did I learn it was Fissidens? At first, I was using a combination of Internet searching and the few moss books I could find in the library, mostly about gardening, to try to learn which mosses I found. But I came to moss through Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Gathering Moss, and she describes Fissidens and its characteristic “pocket”, and this is what helped me recognize my first sample. It’s an unusual moss in that it is flat, or complanate, the leaves lying in the same plane, and even more rare for mosses is that the leaves are inserted on opposite sides of the stem, “two-ranked.”. But the pocket is the real giveaway: each leaf has two layers in the section of leaf near the stem, on the upper side as it grows, and the next leaf is enclosed partially by this two-layered bit. So the plant grows in this beautiful, semi enclosed way, new leaves protected by the pocket as they form, then opening out and flattening as they mature. The structure is clear under a microscope, stage lit so that the pale edges of leaves and the midrib create a precise line drawing, and the pocket’s double layer a deeper shade of green. Maybe this is why identification of Fissidens is so gratifying: it’s obvious and unmistakable, at least as a genus.

A little patch of Fissidens, with protonema in upper left. Tamanowas Rock Sanctuary, Chimacum, WA — A little patch of *Fissidens*, with protonema in upper left. Tamanowas Rock Sanctuary, Chimacum, WA

But the Fissidens held something else for me, a thrill I can’t specify. Somehow this tiny patch of dirt, so easily overlooked or destroyed, so transient as a habitat, produced this exquisite gem of a plant that is glorious and perfect when you look closely enough, which is specially suited to life in a way that no other plant is, and which baffles botanists who try to analyze how this bi-layered leaf grows, in terms of cell division. Worldwide, there are hundreds of species of Fissidens, and the fact of it growing in my own garden gives me a sense of pride and protectiveness - although I know its predilection for disturbed earth does not promise longevity. Fissidens crispus is the first collection of moss that I made and kept in a dated, labeled packet. It may not be a very good sample, but I’m keeping it as a record of my first love, because Fissidens has such an inexplicable hold on my heart.

Abstracted by the combination of microscope and phone camera, this Fissidens stalk grows from an old one. Pockets somewhat visible on the leaves near the stem.

And why this particular fascination for not only mosses, but the tiniest, most ephemeral ones? (Not to mention leafy liverworts, also miniscule and enticing - one day they will get their own ode.) I think the thrill, the gratification, comes from the need to invest in seeing them. You have to pay attention in order to discern the various larger mosses, but Leucolepis acanthoneuron, Plagiomnium insigne, and Atrichum selwynii are rather obvious once you’ve gotten to know them. They can be spotted without even crouching down. The tiny ones, Fissidens and Pohlia, or another favorite, Epipterygium tozerii, demand close attention. Lenses, tweezers, and microscopes are involved, so it necessarily goes beyond a casual interest. And the very fact that these tiny entities require such care to even see them, to even become aware of their qualities as individuals, makes them dear and precious and rewarding.

Unidentified miniature translucent moss from a friend’s driveway, Woodinville, WA

The other side of that gratification is that all it takes is to look. One doesn’t have to travel far, go to remote or dangerous locations, expend resources on some grand expedition - one only has to look here, underfoot, closer than ever before, in order to make remarkable discoveries. They are living out their delicate glory, whether we manage to admire them or not.

Leaucolepis acanthoneuron, antheridium (male reproductive structure) in the center — *Leaucolepis acanthoneuron*, antheridium (male reproductive structure) in the center

in appreciation of small green things

Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that

they have no tongues, could lecture

all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience?

Mary Oliver

I’m here to confess a preoccupation with mosses. I suppose it was bound to happen, after having lived in the desert for 8 years. I chose to move to the Pacific Northwest because of trees and mountains and the color green. The mere color green, as manifested in plants, had become such an elusive sight that I could look at photos of Olympic National Park online and just cry. That such wealth of green existed, somewhere, was promising. But I dreamed of living there, of being immersed in the green light of reflected leaves, needles and tendrils brilliantly photosynthesizing. I dreamed of moss. Moss all over everything.

So I was primed to appreciate moss, and I have been, but it wasn’t until I heard an interview with Robin Wall Kimmerer and then read her book Gathering Moss, that I realized how little I knew about mosses. Even this plural, “mosses”: it’s a code word showing familiarity and appreciation, for only those who look closely even realize the wealth of variety in what we normally call “moss.” For example, in the photo above, taken in the Hoh Rainforest two years ago, I was thrilled with all the glorious moss, and would have said just that. Now, after only a short period of looking and learning, I zoom in on any patch of moss and start seeing how many different types I can distinguish. Without being able to identify species, I can still see characteristics that I was completely unaware of before. And knowing that there are so many different species and shapes in most clumps of moss, I can no longer talk about them without saying “mosses.”

Common along my driveway. My guesses: Eurhynchium praelongum and Brachythecium populeum — Common along my driveway. My guesses: *Eurhynchium praelongum* and *Brachythecium populeum*

Now, whenever I walk, I take my magnifying loupe to examine the mosses in detail. Sometimes I bring home tiny samples so I can look them up and compare them to others I’ve found. I have a moss notebook for notes and little pressed samples. Using Kimmerer and Annie Martin as a starting point, I look up images by species name, and try to match my samples. The names are lyrical, poetic in their rhythmic syllables, and my language-loving mind and mouth delight in pronouncing them: Plagiomnium ciliare… Brachythecium populeum… Dicranium scoparium… Rhytiadelphus squarrosus. The Latin words sound like an invocation, and indeed, I feel an entering, an opening, as I begin to learn their names. Although the Latin binomials are, as Kimmerer notes, “arbitrary constructs,” they are individual and lovely, “as beautiful and intricate as the plants they name,” and as she also explains, to call a being by name is a sign of respect. (Gathering Moss, p.12)

Three mosses from down the road, all growing together. Kindbergia oregana, Hedwigia ciliata(?), Dicranium… scoparium? — Three mosses from down the road, all growing together. *Kindbergia oregana, Hedwigia ciliata(?), Dicranium… scoparium?*

Tree in Bloedel Reserve, Bainbridge Island, WA

This process has taken hold of me, and I’m unsure why the urgency, but I’m not resisting. I’m planting ferns in my garden and encouraging mosses to grow among them, but gardening is not my main motivation. No, it has more to do with expanding and deepening my interaction with my immediate surroundings. Making a home here by looking closely, paying attention, learning the details. In trying to distinguish between different moss species (without the aid of a microscope, which would be really helpful,) I’ve been forced to notice the shape of leaves only one millimeter long, whether they have serrated edges, whether they taper at the tip, how they are placed on the stem in relation to each other. All of these factors have botanical terminology, yet another set of new words to learn. But the important thing is seeing it, noticing that how leaves grow tells something about the plant, and that such characteristics are present and distinct even if it takes a microscope to see it. Each living being has so much going on. Then, when I look up and survey the larger world again, I notice and understand more about big trees and other plants, because they are like giant versions of the mosses. It seems that the mosses are teaching me how to see - an unanticipated and very welcome lesson.

I do need to find more people with this preoccupation, since I often hit a wall with my attempts to identify. But the looking is still fascinating, even when I don’t know exactly who I’m looking at.

Four mosses awaiting further examination and ID… Upper right I think is genus Atrichium, and lower right Barbura…. unguiculata? — Four mosses awaiting further examination and ID… Upper right I think is genus *Atrichium*, and lower right *Barbura…. unguiculata?*

Moss from the waterlogged rain gutter of my garage. Whatever this is, it loves to be completely wet.

I’m gathering my images into a Flickr album so they are easier to peruse all together.