lessons of the forest

I wander through the woods. The day is cool and dry, with a wind blowing that smells of wood and fallen leaves. The bracken has begun to brown, though the Joe pye weed and goldenrod still stand strong.

There is a boulder a little ways out into the woods, those large kind of ones that overlook a hill, not huge but imposing, like those stories of dragons and huge creatures which rest their head down and lay dormant. Its presence feels earth-old, ancient in the same way the moon is.

When I come across it, it is surrounded by tangled textures and shades and heights of green. None but one has dared venture far onto its surface, which has a loose coating of spruce needles and oak leaves. None but one, which I run my fingers over the several types of and marvel at the muted colors and conflicting textures.

The lichen has never been a cowardly being — as old as life on land is, the bond that creates it is one born out of desperation to change things, too. Neither fungi nor plant, lichen is layered in reciprocity- one layer making sugar, one layer collecting minerals, one layer shielding from the hot sun. It has kept the rock company for years while waiting for other species to grow, too — after the ice that covered the world, the lichen was one of the first to return, building itself into tiny niches in the rock with no shelter against the harsh snow or burning sun. In the face of a barren world, the lichen was the one to began to recolor it, one small textured leaf at a time, sending oxygen into the air for the birds and squirrels. The lichen, whose layers love each other.

I lean against the huge maple tree that overhangs the rock and observe. Moss, thick and lush, has began to crawl over the stony surface, vibrant green against the muted tones of lichen. Pine needles and fallen leaves have layered on the textured lichen for years now on a rock which is no longer barren. At one corner of the rock, where the land curves up to meet it, ferns have begun to climb onto the rock, too, which has topcoat of moss and lichen and leaves just thick enough for their roots. After a couple of years, the lichen will only be visible in patches, suffocating under its legacy of lushness. It must love the world deeply, able to let itself secede into the background so its gift can sustain us all. A creature born in times of hardship — on the rock, lichen is no longer needed.

I wonder for a second if the lichen loves us, and then I push away that thought, because we are just as a part of world it knows as the deer and foxes. But I know for a fact that we have not loved the lichen back, with our machines and poisoned water and smog-filled air. More than that, we have neglected to listen to the lichen’s lessons, which whisper to us about the power of community, partnership, and reciprocity. It has showed us so clearly how a simple love can change the world. If we listen, would our fate be not as inevitable as it seems to be? If we learned to do as the lichen does, to work together until the world we live in is fit for all those that come after?

I suspect the lichen will outlive us all, anyway. In the barren world we leave behind, the lichen will grow over our polished caskets and grave stones long after our bodies have rotted.