Personal Reflection on Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses by Robin Wall Kimmerer

I have just closed the pages of Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses by Robin Wall Kimmerer, and yet, the world around me feels as though it has opened wider than before. It is a peculiar and wondrous thing, how the smallest and seemingly most unassuming of life forms can invite one into a contemplation so vast. As I sat with her words, I found myself drawn into the quiet, ancient wisdom of mosses, their subtle presence expanding my awareness of time, connection, and care.

Kimmerer’s writing is a dance between science and poetry, and in that union, I was reminded of the duality that so often resides in life. There is the intellect that seeks to understand, to measure, to name. And then there is the spirit that longs to simply behold, to dwell in awe, and to sense the sacredness of what lies before us. Moss, I realize, teaches both. In its delicate green filigree, it invites the scientist to examine its resilience and adaptations, while simultaneously summoning the poet to kneel close and marvel at its quiet beauty.

I am struck by how Kimmerer’s voice carries such tenderness—a tenderness born, perhaps, of listening. To read her reflections is to encounter a profound listening to the land, to moss, and to the wisdom of her Indigenous heritage. It stirs in me a question: How often do I truly listen? Not just to words spoken by others, but to the more subtle voices of life around me—to the ground beneath my feet, the sigh of wind through trees, or the soft insistence of a brook carving its path?

Moss teaches us patience. It grows where the fast-moving currents of life would overlook. It takes root in places that others deem inhospitable, thriving not in spite of its slowness, but because of it. I wonder, as I reflect on this, how often I rush past the mosses of my own life. How many small, steady blessings have I failed to notice because I was moving too fast, seeking the grand, the obvious? Kimmerer’s words gently remind me that perhaps the most enduring beauty is found not in towering achievements but in the quiet, persistent weaving of life that goes on unnoticed by all but the most attentive.

There is also something profoundly humbling about moss. It is ancient beyond comprehension, rooted in an epoch before the first flowers adorned the earth. And yet, it is utterly unpretentious. Moss does not demand space; it asks only for what is necessary. I am left wondering about the nature of my own wants, about the spaces I seek to fill in my life. What would it mean to live more like moss—to take only what is needed, to dwell in simplicity, and to trust the slow unfolding of time?

Reading this book, I felt myself invited into a deeper relationship with reciprocity. Kimmerer speaks of giving back to the land, of recognizing our interconnectedness with all living things. Moss, she writes, offers itself to the ecosystem with quiet generosity: sheltering, nurturing, replenishing. It challenges the illusion of separateness that so often characterizes human living. In its very being, moss seems to say, "We belong to one another."

As I close my eyes and think of the moss-covered stones I have seen, I realize how often they have been there—silent witnesses to my walks in the forest, unnoticed but always present. They were there in moments of joy and in times of sorrow, their emerald carpets softening the sharp edges of the world. They have been patient companions, waiting for me to see them fully. In reading Kimmerer’s reflections, I feel as though I have returned to those moments with new eyes, as if the moss has been waiting not just for my gaze, but for my gratitude.

In the end, what Kimmerer has given me is not merely knowledge of mosses but a reminder of how to live. To live with humility, to honor the small and overlooked, to practice reciprocity with the world around me. She has shown me that in the intricate lives of mosses lies a reflection of my own life—its fragility, its resilience, its capacity for connection.

I find myself wondering what it would mean to gather moss, not just in the literal sense, but as a metaphor for life. To gather the overlooked, the quiet, the enduring. To treasure what is small but vital. To dwell in the slow and deliberate rhythms of the natural world, rather than in the hurried pace of human striving. And perhaps, most importantly, to understand that in gathering moss, we gather a deeper sense of belonging—to the earth, to one another, and to the tender web of life that holds us all.

As I return to my days, Kimmerer’s words will linger, like the soft green of moss after rain, whispering their quiet truths. I hope I will listen.

All my Love and Light,

An