Field Note: Tip Toe Through the Thorns AKA Finding the Mossy Path

The spring morning was soft but mischievous. A soft kitten with sharp teeth. A new rose with thorns.

The sun was warm on my shoulders, on my cheek, toasty, but the air still moved with a little chill, especially in the shadows near the gazebo and under the holly tree. I stepped out barefoot anyway, coffee still warm in my hand, Loki weaving around my ankles and Harris trotting behind like we have somewhere important to be.

We do. Under the holly tree in the garden. The holly tree is love and hate. The tree is attraction and shelter to so many birds and my squirrels, Chip and Dale. The tree is also food. And yes, the canopy of leaves, is shelter and habitat to other insects. But, ouch. Lovely green leaves and red berries on the silver etched trunk and branches. But, ouch. Hard carpet of thorns during shedding season. My fall is spring here on Roanoke Island. Live oaks and holly trees. Leaves and thorns.

But the butterfly garden is waking up.

Tiny green shoots that are not so tiny anymore had pushed up through the dirt and unfurled leaves: cone flower, bee balm, sages. The lemon oregano smelled sharp and clean when I pinched it. Bees dozed on leaves in the roses, too cool this morning to buzz. That is for afternoon. Somewhere in the canopy, birds chir to one another. Cat in the garden. Cat in the garden. Loki leaps for no reason. Maybe a thorn under her paw.

But quickly she finds a dusty patch of soil and sand in the sun, wriggling her little tortie body into the warm earth as if she could absorb spring directly into her short fur.

"You are going to make me sneeze later," I thought at her. She looks up.

She blinks slowly, entirely unconcerned.

I. Know. Mother.

I wandered farther into the garden, on tip toe to get past the holly’s thorny leaf fodder until I come around the back of the gazebo and feel …. soft patches of cool, damp moss, hidden rivulets into my maze garden I’m making with river rock. The inspiration for the maze garden. The soft moss. the feathering of wild, natural ferns. The lace of ivy with white flowers, red berries. The surprise of Toad Lilly I tucked like a secrete a few years ago in a nook.

Then—ouch.

A thorn.

I stopped and lifted my foot.

Not angry. Not dramatic. Just spring being spring.

I plucked the tiny hitchhiker from my heel and stood there for a moment with one foot tucked up against the other leg, wobbling slightly in the sunlight while Harris watched me with casual concern.

"I know," I said. "Very serious. Garden injury."

He snorts and continues on with his serious task, snuffling in the garden. Possum. Raccoon. Mole. Neighbor’s cat. Loki batts at the butterfly bush. She is the epitome of utterly unconcerned.

I walked on my toes for a few steps after that, carefully picking my way through the rough patch of leaves until I reached the moss again.

Soft.

Cool.

Damp.

I let both feet settle there and closed my eyes.

The breeze moved lightly through my hair and gown.

Somewhere behind me, Loki sneezed. Serves her right.

The sun touched my face as well as the shade. Warmth. Coolness. Together. Mom. Dad.

And for one quiet moment, with the animals nearby, the earth beneath my feet, and the whole garden beginning again around me, life felt very douce et jolie.