I rarely make new year’s resolutions. Instead I usually spend new years eve reflecting on the year leaving and its gifts. As we say hello to 2020 I am filled with amazement when I look back over 2019 and really count all the unexpected things that have transpired. It was a year filled with the ache of loss at the year marker of my dad’s passing, a reconnection with the foster family that cared for me from birth to 2 years, the unexpected discovery of my birth family through a 2018 Christmas gift of Ancestry DNA given by my sister in law, and the decision of my husband and I to make a physical move toward being closer to family. It was a year of realizing some creative aspirations and growing as an artist, and of course, another year of incredible beauty in the mossy realms. I am deeply grateful for it all.
For some years now I have had a little ritual of gratitude, birthed from the awe and solace I have always found in nature. Over time this sweet ritual has spilled over into almost every aspect of my life. It started early one morning as I hiked off trail into the towering coastal pines. Though it is one of so many experiences I’ve had like it, I remember that morning well. The dawn light was so golden, slowly turning the thick dark trees at the edge of the clear cut into a stunning cinnamon colored forest as the sunlight slipped through them. As the sun moved, the light began to spill in golden puddles onto the ferns, stumps and mossy logs on the forest floor. And then the deer appeared. Deer have an amazing way of moving through the forest with little sound. I suddenly noticed the doe as it silently moved into a lighted space on the hill below me and she had a fawn. For a moment they were both bathed in that golden light like some kind of perfect benediction. I couldn’t even raise my camera, the moment felt so sacred. I found my eyes welling with tears whispering “Thank you” over and over.
The deer moved on, the sun shifted, got higher in the sky, lighter and lost it’s golden hue, but that experience stayed with me. From that point on, I have made a practice of gratitude. Gratitude is a huge part of my spirituality. Naturally I frequently thank people for their hard work, acts of kindness, friendships, but I also extend my thanks in other ways. I like to thank the wilderness trails when I finish traversing them, the rocky outcroppings when I meditate on them, the small trees growing to heal the rawness that used to be the clear cut. 
I thank the stumps of old giant trees, mossy forest spaces when I spend time there, the animals I am blessed to encounter, the beach and the ocean cliffs after I watch them do their tidal dances. I thank the places where I write, the places where I weep. I thank guest rooms and hotel rooms for giving me space to relax, I thank houses I’ve spent time in and trains and planes that have taken me across the country.
I thank people and animals, experiences good and bad. I say these words out loud whenever I can but sometimes when that is not possible, the words are silent, directed with deep intent. I do this because I believe gratitude is a way of connecting to the divine. I do this because it makes me aware of the many blessings I have in an often busy life where it can be easy to forget and because I believe all things, animals, people, places, carry energy, share energy and when I leave those spaces, I want to add something positive, leave some good behind me. I choose to believe that there is a kind of grace that is a byproduct of gratitude. It may be the closest I can ever really come to experiencing real humility.
There is a wonderful quote by Bill Wilson, founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, that sums it up pretty well. “I try hard to hold fast to the truth that a full and thankful heart cannot entertain great conceits. When brimming with gratitude, one’s heartbeat must surely result in outgoing love, the finest emotion we can ever know.”
So there are no resolutions for me at the start of this year, just a recommitment to what I’m doing that seems to be working and a sense of excitement for what is to come. I say goodbye to 2019 with this genuine and simple prayer. “Thank you.”
Plant stories are life stories. They have heart and history. I hope those of you reading this have many wonderful plants with stories of their own!
I have watched awed at dawn as the first rays of sunslight slipped through the lacy hemlock branches and laughed out loud sometimes listening to the squeals and groans of trees in wind. I have explored the mysterious deep ravines, crossed mossy log bridges laying toppled across their bottom, gotten my feet wet in the chilly seasonal run-off gurgling down the hillsides, watched deer pass only feet away from me. I have loved every bit of the staggering and stumbling, slipping and lurching, the careful footsteps to avoid stepping on tiny newts who made their home in the thick compost of the forest floor. I have returned in the constant tug of curiosity to follow the wild trails used by deer, elk and bear. I have thrilled at the discovery of dens and burrows, and paused in hushed respect for animal remains found on the forest floor. I have loved the startle of large animals moving through the brush out of sight and the endless hope for seeing them. I have shared that forest with friends and spent time there in solitide. I have left prayers among the trees and offerings at the base of twisted roots. I have loved every minute of my relationship there.
d in for so many years. It is gone now, but I am one of the lucky ones. That forest will always be a part of me.
Remember as a child, laying in the grass, looking up at the clouds? The Nimbus or Cumulus clouds as they boiled high into the sky like great cotton candy towers, the cirrus clouds smeared across the blue like a molt of white feathers from some great celestial bird. Remember your imagination, how you dreamed you could walk up there, climb the clouds, run on the puffy hills, maybe taste the velvety white snow? Remember that amazing land?
Evidence of their dining habits and food stashes can be found everywhere. The holes they dig are often stuffed full of the untouched cones they have chewed off and dropped to the ground. The piles of scales left on stumps or outdoor tables and benches from stripped cones are called “a midden”. Research shows that sometimes squirrels will use the same eating spot over generations!
Both squirrels and chipmunks have vibrant, comical personalities, like a beloved aunt whose dramatic scolding does little but bring a chuckle. Their hectic darts and dashes across open space, the animated bounds with pine cones or other bounty stuffed in their mouths make them look like a silly thief who doesn’t realize he could have the loot for free.
In Autumn’s winding down something in me seems to pause briefly, to pull inward, gather up, listen more deeply. Autumn ignites an old soul connection to celebrate harvest, light ancient fires, reminisce with family and friends. Here on the temperate coast it is a golden song that carries the geese, calls the rain and births the patient waiting winter.
Mossy whispers: Listen to the leaves as they leap in trust from the fingers of trees. Watch them skip and cartwheel across the roadways like groups of gleeful children let out for recess. Feel the connection to ancestors. Pause to savor the pungent flavors and aromas of the season. Immerse yourself in Autumn’s full, beautiful song.
When I am in the forest, my senses are usually in delightful overload. All around me stories of wild life are being told, layered within hues of gold and green, russets, tangerines, grays and blacks, hidden in symbiotic textures of soft moss ribbons, bulged knobby burls, chipped craggy stone, fuzz and thorn. Information sifted through changing shapes and angles, spoken on wind crescendos, in the grind and groan of trees, chirps, chatters, twig snaps, howls and screeches. 
I’ve always had a vivid imagination. As a child I took my bucket full of various plastic animals outside and would search the yard for just the right snaggly root cave or cozy bed in the thick litter beneath bushes for each play critter to call “home.” When traveling long distances in the car, I would watch the landscape going past the car window, imagining some animal racing or galloping along beside us, searching as we drove along for protected places that animal might stop to rest or sleep.
I guess maybe in my grown up way I am still playing those games as I investigate the wild places, constantly curious and captivated by the entrances to dens and burrows. I am still infatuated, exploring the pathways, doorways and tunnels – the secret portals to their alluring world.
So often I write about the lush forests I love to explore along Washington’s temperate coast, but the truth is we initially moved to this area to be near the ocean. Our house sits directly between Willapa bay to the east, and the Pacific ocean to the west, less than a mile from the beach as the crow flies. I saw the Pacific ocean for the first time as a young child – maybe age 7? We were on a family vacation from Wisconsin and visited the Oregon coastline along Cannon Beach. I remember the awe, the wild thrill and mystery of it all – the great sea stacks looming from the waves, the screaming gulls, the flocks of sand pipers 
running along the surf as the waves receded, seeing the mollusks and starfish clinging to the rocks at low tide, my ever adventurous dad wading out to bring a couple of them back to us so we could examine them close up. I remember standing ankle deep in excruciating cold water for family pictures and the endless treasure hunt for sea gifts that had washed up into the sand. I was hooked, and I spent a life time dreaming of living near the Pacific Ocean. At last, over 30 years later, that dream actually came true.
There are days here…incredible days, when that old thrill comes back, when I feel like a kid again, when I can’t imagine a grander place to live. Most of this week has been a string of those days, full of beach exploration, mystery, fascination and surprise.
Sea lions are another local attraction that never disappoint in entertainment value and I spent time this week watching them. Like a couch full of irritable basset hounds (My husband and I had the great fortune of living with and loving a house full of bassets for more than half our marriage), they lounge on docks, push and bellow, have noisy showy squabbles, then sleep with their heads resting on each other.
Well, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve never managed that. I have a hard time sitting still and doing nothing for even 5 minutes. And emptying my mind? Before long I’m making shopping lists, trying to remember if I gave the dog his morning eye drops, making a mental note that I need to make a call or schedule some neglected appointment, all the while trying to rid myself of some frustrating song playing over and over in my head. Obviously this model of meditation is very helpful to some, and I am in no way knocking or attacking anyone else’s practice, it simply hasn’t worked for me.
They darted from the branches to dip and circle around me, feasting on bugs I suspect, in an endless mission to feed their young. Thin gray clouds moved across the sky, creating a cotton candy background as the birds swooped and made sharp turns through the open air.
Ahead of me, a variety of wild grasses bobbed in the breeze, their seed heads bending, nodding like thousands of spirited horses. Their texture and the way they caught the light stopped me again. I brushed my fingers through them, enjoying the softness, watching tiny seeds release, then noticed a garter snake sunning himself on the gravel ahead. I moved toward him slowly, observed him quietly, hoping I wouldn’t disturb him, admiring the bright stripes, the shape and texture of scales, the thin flicking tongue, his intense eyes. After a lengthy study, I made a wide arc around him, then left the road to hike into the forest.
Occasionally the trees above me would groan or screech, rubbing together in a crescendo of wind, and twice the screech was sudden enough to startle me into a gasp and then a chuckle. I stopped to drink water and nibble on a snack from my pack, sat on a mossy ledge above a deep ferny gully, enchanted and as always, grateful to be there.
Mossy whispers: Let nature be your meditation guide for a day. Stand still and listen to the breath of the wind as it lifts and falls. Let yourself get swept into the currents of curiosity and fascination where time dissolves and renewal can be as simple as evening sunshine glowing through a feather in the grass…