The thing about moss
Moss is unlike other plants.
It doesn’t grow up towards the light or down into the richest soil. It settles into the cracks of stone, onto the edge of a fallen logs, and tucks into cozy corners while the world passes by.
You might feel weathered and worn, like that fallen log, or maybe you feel cracked open, like that stone.
That’s alright. Those are the perfect conditions for a cozy corner of moss to take hold.
Moss survives when other plants can’t.
In the dry season, moss shrinks away. It becomes brittle, brown, and dry. A shell of its former lushness.
Do you know that feeling?
Difficult conditions faded your vibrancy. Withered away by years of masking. Separated and fractured from your former self.
Moss is waiting for the rain.
Moss rests until the conditions change. Once the rain returns, it resurrects. The chlorophyll kickstart, transforming a crusty dried sponge into a fluffy green puff.
This is a quiet process, like healing. Healing doesn’t always announce itself loudly. More often, it unfolds like moss:
slowly,
gently,
finding a hold in the smallest space,
and transforming an entire surface.
Moss has extraordinary strengths.
Maybe you’re more like moss than you know.