What the fuck, Oregon. You are so wet. You have no business being so wet! How did this happen? Do I deserve to receive all this sacred water with you?
I see rivers everywhere. It’s so beautiful–it’s hard to take in.
Ming and I walked to the grocery store down the street. I noticed this asphalt ledge covered in moss, with a fern growing out of the moss.
Holy crap. A bit much, right? How can a fern grow on the moss that grows on asphalt?
Where I come from, there’s frequent fog in the mornings. There’s a wet aspect there. But this Oregon wet is unreal / overly real.
Do you like moss? What is moss? Is moss ok?
By the food bank, there’s a this place of moss initials.
I’m thinking people put their initials in concrete, a standard person way of saying “I was here–I matter.” Then water pools in the lower places, and moss likes to grow there. Wow, amazing. I never saw this before.
When Ming and I go for a walk, all the moss around makes me think of a poem I liked when I was young. I guess I still like it–the Li Po poem “The River-Merchant’s Wife: a Letter” as translated by Ezra Pound. It has “the monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.” And the different mosses too deep to clear them away.
I think of water bears, when I see the moss–microorganisms that some scientists put into space. I think water bears like to live in moss. Water bears matter to me.
It’s funny to be middle aged. I hope there are decades ahead to be a crone in. As for now, I’m a non-mother mother with graying hair who nurtures a lot. Lots of love I share with Ming and friends who value me.
It’s a winter time of change, turning inward, and saying some big no to what doesn’t further my goals, with some big yes to what’s really right and helpful and fair. I shuffle my priorities and hunker down for darkness.
Grateful to have a home, figuring out what the water means to me when it’s so abundant, and who I am in this wet context.