My yard has yards and yards of mosses.
I'm always commenting on this, I know.
But that's because I'm always looking at it and glorying over it.
Large swaths of green mosses grow out over the rocky hillside our home is built on.
Each morning looks like a bunch of green cloths, quilts, and comforters were just left pilled up on the ground around the rocks after some wood nymphs and driads fell into a stupor after dancing or something.
Also, the tiniest and most delicate clumps of contrasting greens and textures grow in, on, and over all the rocks coming right up to our front door.
I get to live in a fairy garden, basically.
I don't even have to leave my house to study it's details throughout the day; I just have to walk up to any front window and look while I sip coffee.
It's a gift from The Almighty, truly, a garden tended for me by the natural processes at work all around my house.
Moss may be my greatest consolation for having to live in New England, something I am sure is God's will, but something that remains a hardship even after decades, because of the climate and the culture, and something that remains a mystery, because of the hardships.
Nevertheless, "Where else could so much moss grow?" I ask myself.
One hardly ever gets "too hot" even in the fullest sun here. Thus the moss everywhere...
So a body can sit for hours with the cool, green moss under her, with the golden sun shining down on her, and the bright blue sky above her...
And I confess, it's a particular glory all it's own.