Of Mushrooms, Moss, and Trees Sunday, December 15, 2024

I stand in awe before a mushroom.

It’s brown, pitted——worn——and small.

This mushroom, though the size of my thumb is a monument.

It is an exaltation of the network of mycelium below it.

It is the child of a network more vast than I, all below my feet.

The mushroom sits atop the moss.

It sprouts through the star-shaped stems it now protects, casting shade on the moss below it…

on the moss which protected it as it grew.

Above all stands a once stout sapling that ascended to tree-hood.

Its conception from the falling of a seed which thought no more of itself than the dirt it was buried in.

It grew. The seed sprouted, miraculously discovering which way is up with no senses to call its own.

Its sprouts push through the moss and mushrooms above it with the fungi feasting on the seeds which were not so lucky, forced to rot.

The mushroom means no harm in its feeding,

it is simply continuing.

It is nature; here, there is no beauty without sacrifice.

Time passes.

A branch falls. The wind roaring past its leaves, a branch splits and falls with its leaves tagging along.

With no choice to go anywhere but where the wind will take them, they rest on the ground.

The branch, with its rings of growth, relaxes on the young moss.

The leaves do the same.

I was not here when this branch fell in the woods–nor was anyone.

But I am here to witness its peaceful but fleeting coexistence with the forest floor.

I continue with my hike, and I am not there to witness their stories anymore.

Regardless, whether a branch falling, a mushroom sprouting, or some moss spreading,

their stories continue. As do mine.