This meadow was laid with moss thicker than five wool blankets. Engulfing every rock, leaf, and dead thing in its path- growing new life, and repeating this cycle over and over and over again, as it has for billions of years, in the most delicate and unhurried way imaginable. It felt so undisturbed that every step made me feel so human and a sense of guilt washed over me. I apologized for every step that shook the ground that made the mating newts disperse, or every mycelium network thread I toppled over by my disproportionate, bipedal humanoid feetsies.
And then a sense of responsibility replaced this sense of guilt. The responsibility to take care of what I am a part of. To clean the littered highway that lead me here, the trash of other humans who hastily live their lives without taking the gentle second to bask in awe of the miracle that the world really is. A small ball of rock and fire spinning around other rocks of fire, so perfectly distanced from everything to create a habitable environment for 40 foot tall mushrooms to thrive in the Devonian period?
Pretty magical if you ask me...
