A Bed of Moss

 I hike mountains. I travel to them in the early mornings with the sun. These journeys are beyond me but I get to hold them while I’m there. 

Kootenay Rockwall Trail

    Each step is a prayer formed by my ragged breaths, made physical in the form of my footprints. My feet connect with the ground and I am renewed. Cool air fills my lungs with the scent of pine sap and wildflowers and I am renewed. It is odd to say that as I am grounded in these moments, as much a part of this mountain as a nearby tree or boulder, I am also lost to the present. I connect with the mountain and I am released. My roots travel as the mountain’s do, down valleys and slopes to distant meadows and streams. I hear birds call and it stirs within me. In quiet moments the trees murmur too. Running my fingers across the bark of a cedar I feel its brittle dryness- rough and papery and filled with grooves that tell me tales from years before. I have no god but hiking is my prayer. 

Out from the trees the air is dry and hot with summer. I can hear insects buzzing nearby but they do not come to me. The breeze flows past in the open space, but climbs to the treetops to dance. The heat of the sun presses against the back of my neck. As I step into the trees the air cools and goes still; this is a place of rest. Going further into the woods, the ground turns from gravel and sticks to moss. Thick moss. I take off my shoes and lower my feet into the green blanket. There are no linens so tender. It fills the spaces between my toes and gathers around the soles of my feet. The moss is cooler still, and the shade of the trees is so inviting. Here the moss covers everything, climbing up trunks and covering the rocks and twigs beneath its layers. I lay down in it and close my eyes. The air smells of berries and sap and I forget myself in the soft embrace. I breathe deeply to take it in. My legs and arms are stretched about me, supported by forest bedding. Pieces of light break their way through the canopy and keep me warm. Time goes on and I find myself dozing into sleep. This is peace. 

When I wake up the sun is still high. I am groggy from the deep slumber. I move to get up, but instead I kneel on the ground to grab a handful of moss. Pulling it apart tenderly I bring it up to my face and take in its scent. There is no sweetness, no pungence- just the smell of a forest’s breath. It doesn’t smell like grass clippings, or like the rain; its freshness belongs only to itself. The moss is a promise of aging, a promise of rest. It is the promise of returning to something larger than myself.