We need to talk about moss.

We need to talk about all things green, everything that terraforms the planet, tames the rage of wind and water, gathers carbon out of air and feeds the biosphere. We have not heard enough about trees and grasslands yet, nor river-reeds and seaweeds. Let’s not stop talking forest and food-chain, farming, foraging, flora and fauna. But let’s include the small and creeping things as well. Mosses.
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I want to know why there are chemical sprays to remove the moss from garden lawns, when everyone who has ever walked barefoot through their garden on a summer morning knows that a lawn needs moss to make it perfect. I want to understand why you would water-blast the greenness off your boundary-walls and driveway, when it’s not doing any harm and it looks so much prettier than naked brick and stone. I want to find out if there’s a cost-effective way to build a roof that won’t get damaged by slow-shifting clumps of moss—a roof that mosses could thicken and insulate like old mediaeval thatch, keeping your house cooler in summer and warmer the rest of the year. 

Early one Saturday morning, my 11-year-old decided to take cuttings from all our houseplants, replant them in the biggest garden pots he could find, and fill his tiny shared bedroom with greenery. Spider plants, tradescantia and a couple of aloes, all mixed in together and soaked with water, standing on dinner-plates borrowed from the kitchen. His 9-year-old brother woke up later that morning, saw the transformation and thought he was still dreaming a happy dream.

When both your sons actually agree on something, you let it happen if you can. The boys watered their chosen treasures sporadically but generously, and their jungle grew, crowding windowsill and furniture until there was barely room to sleep there. Trailing stems and offshoots wandered around, getting accidentally pruned off when they crossed someone’s pillow or caught on someone’s clothing. 

A few months later I noticed that something had changed. My younger son had stopped coughing. That nasty little cough that used to persist for weeks following every bout of cold or flu… it was gone. 

It was that day in August—the day before school begins. It wasn’t my school, because I’m only a supply teacher, but I went there for the morning to learn about the new Reading & Writing framework. There is always a new Reading & Writing framework, for educational leaders are always either throwing out what works best or berating teachers for not doing what works best.

I had sat on a chair and listened to the woman and I’d “got into groups” and talked with the people and I’d done something on big paper and scribbled in my notebook and I’d checked off my PRD target and now I was headed for the door. The permanent-contract teachers would stay and use the afternoon to arrange their classrooms.
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Ever nosy, I peeked into one classroom after another as I walked down the corridor.