Indoor moss garden

Inspired by the garden of Saihoji Temple, I chose to tear up the wall-to-wall carpet and replace it with moss. The process was simple: equal parts clay, sand and soil spread across the floor, then a sprinkling from the moss cocktail I had bought online, water, and wait. In Japanese tradition, moss symbolises eternity and harmony. Look out over Kyoto’s vivid green coverings, closing tightly around trunks and gravel paths, and you understand. The moss itself is a detailed piece of nature for those who look closely: stars, spirals and triangles, like small galaxies.

A few weeks after the initial phase of the project, the growth had begun to push across the floor. A few more weeks later, there were hardly any surfaces left uncovered, and at last I could place my feet against the reassuring living ground as I rose from bed in the mornings.

Soon the vegetation worked its way up the walls and across the ceiling. Other forms of existence also began to make themselves known. Spiders and woodlice, of course, but also mice and frogs, deer and elk. In the kitchen lay a cluster of boulders, which at night might transform into trolls, or not, everything was still possible and impossible.

The entire flat soon brought to mind the forest I roamed as a child, where I could get lost without ever being gone, because nature was always home. As then, I wandered further and deeper in, found streams and marshland, ravines and clearings. Not a step was taken without noticing the softly tickling organism that lived beneath the soles of my feet. An unending massage, a reminder that I was moving in the right direction.

When one morning I spoke Japanese, I was not surprised, though that might have seemed natural given I had never practised the language before. I was simply in such a phase now, and besides I had other things on my mind, as I had misplaced my rake. Maple leaves covered the living room floor, and I was expecting guests.