It is a peculiar and intriguing thing, the difference between what two sets of eyes will see.

I suppose you have to be looking in order to be aware of what is actually materializing in front of you—what you’re feeling. Take this moss for example; the lushness of it cushions my palm while resting briefly upon the bark of this tall tree. I am fascinated by how it emanates so many different colors—you might just call it green but it is radiating beneath my flesh, verdant and vital.

And here I am, only pondering it in passing. Perhaps I shouldn’t touch it, only admire and move on. But I can’t resist the temptation of knowing what it feels like to lay an unsteady hand upon the vibrancy of growth.

Did you notice it? The growth? In me, I mean. Perhaps you had to understand me before, so you could appreciate it—I ponder the simplicity of having a measuring stick to hold up beside me and I could grin widely and point out the differences, again with my own hand.

“Here” and “here” I would say and point to haphazard lines of years, events, feelings and moments that have comprised the notched scars and progress. I would say it proudly but still in questioning, “don’t you see?” I’ve assumed it to be obvious all this time.

I am all-brilliance like the forest around. The sharp contrast of atrophy and newness all but holds my senses hostage.

Sure there are the cool damp leaves and mahogany mulch that I tread upon, but then there are the warm trappings of lightness that cannot be replicated so completely elsewhere. The sunlight gilds the overhanging branches and sparingly breaks through the foliage above to filter beams, full and fervent, deep into the earth.

The decaying trunks of fallen pine giants, the water glazing lazily over the chilly river rocks and time worn banks absorb, then reflect the simple kindness.

I stop trying to share the process or explain because much like the moss on tree trunks, it must be felt.

 

 

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Author: Mallory Turner

Editor: Emma Ruffin

Photo: Leah Grace/Flickr