“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity… and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself”
There is something almost magical about spanish moss draped ever so delicately over the branches of a graceful southern oak, pecan or even lowly pine tree. It as if the moss itself is suspended magically in air– just slightly above a branch– not dumped heavily or haphazardly. The branches do not bend or bow down under its weight, it is more ethereal in nature, which only adds to it’s ghostly charm.
To be in the deep south on a hot humid evening, with the tiniest breath of a breeze gently swaying the suspended moss, ever so slightly in the branches overhead… along with the hypnotic cadence of the cicadas gently humming in the dark…there is a deep rooted, magical, wondrous mystery in all of this. Life is slower, calmer, of another time and place.
If you have never seen the moss in person, walked under the branches with their gently flowing silver hair languishing downward toward the ground, breathing deeply in the heavily perfumed air of gardenias or even the ever present salt of the nearby sea, then you have not known nature’s true eloquence. This is a gift that I wish for you…..