In the cemetery, moss peeks through the flagstones under my feet. Instead of being anchored by roots, moss has rhizoids that enable it to attach to soil. When walking through the city center of Copenhagen, you can go blocks without seeing a tree, but there will undoubtedly be a smattering of moss between the cobblestones you walk on. I imagine how the soil beneath the cemetery must look, whether the roots of the hedges resemble their assemblage above ground or if they stretch out to each other.
I spent the past week in northern Iceland, walking on the bouncy, windy tundra covered with its own kind of moss, a cushiony cousin of sphagnum moss. Plants on the tundra grow close to the ground to protect against the wind, and their roots can only grow so deep due to the presence of permafrost. As a result, you won’t see the old, tall oaks that flank my sit-spot today. This is such an instinct difference that would obviously impact the way we experience the world around us. As a child, I loved to sit in the Japanese maple in my front yard and observe its
leaves up close. As we drove around Iceland, I noticed that many small towns had an inflated outdoor space for children to play on, mimicking the bouncy surface of the tundra.
In Denmark, drinking water is produced from groundwater. According to the Ministry of Environment, Danes aim to prioritize preventing pollution before having to worry about water treatment. Most water is oxygenated and filtered before it is pumped out to taps, and is only given advanced treatment in “exceptional” cases. My living space is a unique apartment complex that was constructed to be highly sustainable, but it’s difficult to find specifics about electricity supply online. When reading from its own website, it can feel a bit like greenwashing, as green roofs and minimal solar panel usage are emphasized over energy supply. This subject has come up in several of my courses this semester because Denmark is known for being an extremely sustainable country.
