Same Story; New Eyes to See

One of most wonderful aspects of working with the medicine of symbol, imagery, and nature is the ways in which the message can speak to the heart of multiple issues across time and space, offering information and healing to everyone who shares the encounter.

Case in point: in my initial blog entry of about a year ago, I described a medicine walk and the healing message I received from an upended piece of moss. What I didn’t share at the time was how timely that message also was for my husband.

About a year before that hike my husband had experienced a professional sea-change that had upended him — just like our Moss Friend. With no advance warning, at the end of an annual review, he was informed that his position was being down-sized and repackaged as a seasonal role. Then he was handed a new job description (which included a list of his “new” old duties) and with a warm smile his supervisor expressed her sincerest expectation that he would continue on in the department.

Unable to afford the pay cut, he had no choice but to resign. After nearly 10 years with an organization he called home, he suddenly found himself — like that little piece of moss — dislodged and parted from a beloved community and work for which he had a great passion and commitment.

This was a blow to his heart, to have to walk away from a place he loved and to which he felt so connected and had contributed so much value. Grieving the loss, he pulled together several part-time jobs while he searched for a full-time position in his field. We prayed for guidance on this path of change, and he opened himself to a larger mission, guided by the divine. And that’s where he was still living on that chilly February day when we encountered the Moss Man.

In the moment, my focus was on my experience, for the story of its upending and re-rooting felt so resonant to me. But the wisdom of that narrative also had a message for my husband, who himself had connected with its synchronicity and lesson — albeit less consciously: he, too, would soon have a new home.

And about three months after rescuing that little moss person on that winter hike, my husband was unexpectedly offered a full-time position with one of the organizations where he had been working part-time. This was a newly created role; the company had literally made space for him — much as we were able to make space for the little Moss Man under the tree’s toes. And like our Moss Man, my husband joined a new community were he was not only welcome but could also put down roots — in a neighborhood close to the old one.

I received a teaching that day about the power of narrative. The aspects of a story line or account to which we attach help reveal the themes that can guide our individual experiences. The Moss Man narrative could be read for the threads that applied to each of us. Further, its narrative would have held medicine for anyone who had been on that walk that day: some part of the Moss Man’s story would have spoken to that person, helping to cast light on an issue in, or aspect of, hir life.

Every narrative contains a healing message for the person who encounters it. One just needs the eyes to see it — and a heart to open to it.

Moss Man Prophesy

 

Recently, my husband and I took a gentle hike at a local park. Because it was rather late in the afternoon — and quite cool for what had been a rather balmy El Nino February — we had the park to ourselves. As often happens when I am out in nature, a medicine walk ensued.

It unfolded quite naturally as we wound our way, off-path, around a the shoreline of a pond. Our easy conversation ranged across current projects and inner work, dreams and hopes, plans for the upcoming weeks. When we arrived at a small clearing by the edge of the water, a stick spoke to us, and we carved and spoke our blessing into it, setting it free in the water, the trees bearing witness.

From the pond edge we charted a trail through the trees and up a hill. As we crossed a road, finding our course, I felt the familiar altered state that comes over me as I prepare to receive medicine. My eye-gaze softens and opens, feeling across and into the landscape like an antenna. My senses heighten and now-time drops away as I plug into the matrices of energy grid lines and earth waves, stalking a message — a knowing waiting just for me. I enter my Earth Church.

My husband had already moved into this state of sacred grace, having found a piece of lightning wood that spoke to him with the power of the skies. We paused for a momentary ritual, during which he anointed his treasure with the waning sun rays and snow-water, cold earth and chilly air. Then we began to climb, again, up into a hilly grove and onto a new trail.

I was in the lead, and within a few steps, I felt the call of something waiting for me, close by. I could hear my husband talking behind me but had already merged with the silence of the woods. Look down.  My eyes lightly scanned the ground, noting the pine needle beds among the leaves. Then I noticed a small oval of emerald moss upended. Who or what was so careless as to kick that little round bed of green off its spot? I felt sorry for that moss, with no place to grow. A moment later, there was another green mound laying upside down. I picked it up. It was so very soft, it’s green almost too bright for a winter’s day. I searched the ground nearby for its family so I could replace it, but found no other mosses in the area.

Petting its springy coat, I carried my new green friend up the hill as we hiked deeper into a stand of pines, wondering what to do. Could it live somewhere in my home? But how how would I feed it, water it? I wondered about adopting it and worried it would die without a moss community. I was pulled from these considerations by my husband’s voice. He had been talking to me all the while,  though I had had no ears to hear.

“Did you just say something about Robert Moss?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied, and repeated his comment about dream work.

I laughed to myself at the serendipity of it (so common when we are receiving a teaching from the Earth), and I made a mental note to dip back into Moss’s Sidewalk Oracles, a recent Christmas gift. Then I turned to to him to let him in on the joke.

“Want to see what I found?” I showed him the mossy pillow I was lovingly holding in my cupped hand.

As Little Moss and I companionably continued down the path together, I considered his dilemma. He had been uprooted and upended. He needed a village that could make room for him, adopt him, and this new home needed to be in nature — not on my alter or a window ledge in my kitchen.

Just then, I noticed the multiple moss colonies that evidently were thriving under the evergreens at the top of the ridge. I knew that I was charged with finding just the right spot for Little Moss — and that this relocation site was near.

Shortly, nearing a turning place on the trail, a tree drew my attention. Looking down, I noticed mosses of the same ethnicity as the one I was carrying clustered around the tree’s rooty feet. This must be the place. But a second look revealed no empty lots…. Crouching down to admire the velvety clusters of green, my hand followed its own wisdom and began to weed a pile of dead leaves and twigs between two knotted tree toes, magically uncovering a small hollow of dirt. Delighted, I placed my Moss Man into the depression and carefully pressed him into place, noticing how perfectly he fit among his companions. I prayed over him a blessing to re-root and grow strong under the protection of that tree, surrounded by a new circle of mossy friends. I offered him and the tree my water.

Then I opened to the lesson and listened for the homily.

The moss was me. And like my Moss Friend, my life had also been upended.

Three years ago I left my teaching career with the goal of down-sizing my professional responsibilities to make room for my work as a healer. This change included a relocation and being jobless for a portion of the transition. When I landed a small job in a nonprofit, it seemed the ideal position for someone who wanted work-life balance and the space to grow a new career after hours. However, once in the role, a burden of additional responsibilities quickly piled up, and the demands were far beyond what I was willing to accommodate.

Now, a year and a half in, I was not only overworking but had also been compelled by circumstance (a story for another time) to accept a promotion that would expand my role. My plan was no longer on course, and I felt like that Little Moss: off-trail, upside down and on my back.

As I considered the Moth Man’s narrative of restoration, my heart grew light. A path opened before me — though it was too soon to know how I would walk it. A new professional home was waiting for me — one that would support my goals and intentions as I had originally intended. And that abode was likely just a little way down the trail, and perhaps not far from my current occupational home.

I let the truth of this prediction resonate throughout my body and felt a deep tension ease. The timeline would take care of itself, I knew. All I needed to do was remain open and listen for the call. Someone or something was coming to my rescue.

 

 

CODA: April 8, 2017

Just about a year after my encounter with the Moss Man, I transferred to a new position within my organization, a down-sized role with significantly less responsibility and well-established boundaries around work hours. Now, two months into my new job, I am not only finding the spaciousness to explore my calling and build my practice, but also to write this blog and to attend to my self-care. Best of all, I have found a new professional home where I can put down roots — and it’s just down the road a piece from the old one.