For years, I had a beloved hike along a ridgeline in the Shenandoah Valley that I dubbed “Epiphany Ridge.” The retreat center that was attached to the ridge was a favored place for me and my family for so many reasons: it was the first place I got to tell some of the story of my spiritual journey, it was the place that my beloved, but totally secular husband came to love as much as I did, and it was home to the church camps that help raise my kids into light and love so much more than the Sunday Schools they’d attended. The canopy was rich with a variety of trees, the sightline was just spectacular, and even better, the path was lined with moss, which I think is what heaven is carpeted with.
So when we moved to Massachusetts, and bought this funky property in the middle of the woods, to my great delight I found an area a bit removed from our front door just decorated with bits of moss. Not a carpet, but a montage: a bit between stumps and rocks, a clump or two behind the undergrowth. I would visit that spot, pondering why it called to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore sunlight, its play on water and all things bright, but there is something so deep and holy about the density of green and shadow and containment. Late this Summer, I placed a chair and a pot of vinca in the midst of the moss and the trees and the undergrowth, and it has become a place of retreat, silence and solace.
During this Pandemic, we’ve all been subjected to isolation, virtual work and gathering, uncertainty, and for many, full blown crisis. I fully realize that because of my privilege and where I live, I’ve been spared the worst. And I’m grateful.
I’m especially grateful for this little, green, enclosed spot, where I can sit, and marvel at creation, and wonder how the world will work once we’ve emerged from this Pandemic. The gentle moss speaks to me, the tiny trees surround. I emerge in hope.