Wednesday, February 04, 2004
a stationary stone
We’ve had some rain. The thing I like most about walking around after the rain is how intense the colors get. Broken concrete is imbued with poetic subtlty. Worn-out patchy paint has a cosmic depth. Edges are crisp. Textures are dense. The dusty accretions of ordinary life are washed away, leaving things just exactly as they are. Wood is rich, with deep grain and brawny solidity. All the plants seem supercharged, the green fuse that runs through them manifestly the same vital principle that energizes me.
And then there’s the moss. Moss and lichens. They’re so understated, but I think they’re my favorites. You can be looking at a wall or a patch of earth you’ve seen every day, always the same, dull flat faces and a tired grey stain… but after it rains, the stain reveals itself to be an emerald organism, verdant, profuse, lighter than air, bright as wit, triumphant in regeneration. Within a day, these impromptu gardens revert to their former wan aspect. The water all evaporates, sucking the vibrancy out of those delicate gametophytes. What was once a gnarled hunk of dried-out burl, and then blossomed into an edenette, charming and restful, is again dessicated, returned to hibernation. Everything else looks great after the rain because it looks more like itself, cleaned and polished; but the moss assumes its authentic appearance only in the light reflected from pools of rainwater. What seemed to be nothing, has become something - something humble yet beautiful. In those brief hours the moss reveals itself everywhere, disclosing life where once was only stone and brick, festooning the edifices of nature and men with its proud effusion, only to shrink away quietly and all too quickly thereafter. There’s a lesson in there for me somewhere, but I think too much to hear it. Regardless, I look forward to every rainfall - for myriad reasons, but the moss is chief among them.
