Give me the man who will surrender the whole world for a moss or a caterpillar, and impracticable visions for a simple human delight.
The man who authored this quote was Bruce Frederick Cummings, born in England in 1889. He published a book of diary entries entitled The Journal of a Disappointed Man in 1919. That was also the year he died at the age of thirty from multiple sclerosis. It was only in 1915 when he was rejected from serving in World War I that he learned of his diagnosis and prognosis. Afterwards, he wrote eloquently of his struggle from his ‘naturalist at heart’ perspective. He wrote about his impending death:
To me the honour is sufficient of belonging to the universe — such a great universe, and so grand a scheme of things. Not even Death can rob me of that honour. For nothing can alter the fact that I have lived; I have been I, if for ever so short a time. And when I am dead, the matter which composes my body is indestructible—and eternal, so that come what may to my ‘Soul,’ my dust will always be going on, each separate atom of me playing its separate part — I shall still have some sort of a finger in the pie. When I am dead, you can boil me, burn me, drown me, scatter me — but you cannot destroy me: my little atoms would merely deride such heavy vengeance. Death can do no more than kill you.
It was because of the rain the day before that the world beneath our feet burst into a lush, colorful canvas. Last weekend’s rain was the first substantial Spring shower of the season, the one to wash away the accumulated grime from Winter’s melted snow piles and the one to anoint the dormant ground with Nature’s blessing. The first to respond to that blessing is an array of mosses and lichens that have been covered with snow most of the Winter. Without traditional plant structures like roots, stems, leaves, and flowers, they absorb water and nutrients like a sponge—plumping up, greening up, and livening up.
A bed of moss makes a desirable, protective seedbed for tiny new trees, helping to keep the ground moist for germination.
Since mosses and lichens have no roots or structures to transport water throughout their system, most grow close to the ground so as not to dry out. When a tree is ‘grounded,’ moss will soon overtake it.
Young saplings looked like they were wearing ‘mossy pants.’
Deer tracks dug into the soft, squishy carpet of rain-drenched moss.
Lime green Plume moss pushed aside the dark purple, rolled leaves of late Fall.
Mosses and lichens are an essential part of our ecosystem, absorbing carbon dioxide and other pollutants.
Little stars of Juniper moss twinkled among the Jack Pine needles.
The forest floor, that world beneath our feet, is a community of sticks, leaves, grasses, insects, mosses, seeds, bacteria, lichens, fungi, and others—all living and working together in a symbiotic relationship.
When mosses ‘bloom,’ they produce sporophyte stalks and spores—after the rain, they were already getting to the business of reproduction.
The ‘red coat’ protuberances of British Soldier lichens are eye-catching in the early Spring monochrome…
…as is this light green lichen on the dark wood of a Pine.
Waves of wispy grasses are matted against the moss from the weight of Winter’s snow.
But on this day after the rain, the rejuvenated moss prevails.
Glittering Wood moss—isn’t that the most magical name!?—crawls over a log.
A golden lichen, Reindeer moss (which is also a lichen), and Trumpet lichen are intricate pieces of art on the forest floor.
The world beneath our feet is often overlooked in the practicality of getting from one place to another and in the mundaneness of green and brown. It only takes a closer look to discover a world of infinite variety and exquisite artistry. We cannot abandon ‘impracticable visions’ or ‘the whole world’ in pursuit of a moss or a lichen, but a balancing of those extravagant, exuberant goals with a simple human delight will ground us in our humanity. What would be your pursuit if you knew your days were numbered? A year of a global pandemic and millions of lives lost and grieving should shake us to question that, just as Bruce Cummings did after learning of his prognosis. May the tiny Trumpet Lichens proclaim exultant victory over death, and may we all be anointed with Nature’s blessings. Amen.
