Regular readers of the blog will know that I am doing my best to try to combat plant-blindness. I’ve been visiting more botanical gardens and purchased some books on the topic of plant conservation. One of these is Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses, which is a rare and radiant work of science writing, with equal parts rigorous ecology, deft natural history observation, cultural reflection, and heartfelt advocacy. Within its pages, mosses are not the marginal, overlooked plants most readers expect, but rather portals into understanding ecosystems, evolutionary adaptations, and our own roles within the living world. When was the last time that you looked at a moss excitedly, instead of stepping over it and forgetting all about it? For a conservationist, this book is both a field guide and a manifesto, it invites us to reconsider what we value, what we study, and how we engage ethically with the non-human world.

At first glance, the subject of mosses might seem esoteric. Mosses are diminutive, low-growing plants lacking flowers, often passed over in favour of charismatic megaflora like oaks or redwoods (depending which continent you’re on). But Kimmerer (a botanist, professor, and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation) makes their fascination irresistible. She combines meticulous scientific description with a poet’s sensibility, urging readers to see mosses not merely as objects of study but as teachers in adaptation, resilience, and relationship. One of the defining strengths of Gathering Moss is Kimmerer’s ability to bridge empirical science and narrative. Too often, textbooks reduce ecology to charts and jargon, here we see ecology in action. Each chapter tracks a species or taxon of moss and uses it as the basis to explore life history strategies, physiology, reproductive biology, and ecological roles through loosely connected assay. Rather than dry exposition, Kimmerer places herself in the field, sharing the tactile experience of discovery, the warmth of sunlight on a bryophyte mat, the glint of spores under a microscope, the generational patience required to learn identification by touch and sight. All of this places you in the action, making it feel like you’re there with Kimmerer.

For the conservationist in me, this narrative approach reinvigorates a foundational lesson of ecology: context matters. To conserve a species or habitat effectively, we must understand not only its diagnostic traits but its place in a living network of interactions. Mosses, so dependent on microclimate and substrate, illustrate sensitivity to disturbance and hydrological change in ways that make them excellent indicators of ecosystem health. Kimmerer’s attention to this level of detail highlights why conservation strategies should be informed by fine-grained ecological knowledge, not just broad brush assessments of biodiversity. Technical accuracy underpins every sentence of Gathering Moss. Kimmerer clearly explains the life cycles of bryophytes, from the protonema stage to gametophyte and sporophyte, offering insights into their evolutionary lineage as some of the earliest land plants. She shows how their lack of vascular tissue shapes their ecological niche, dependent on surface moisture yet capable of remarkable desiccation tolerance. Mosses thus embody a suite of adaptations that challenge our assumptions about what it means to be ‘successful’ in plant evolution. I am never going to look at mosses the same way after reading this book and may have to collect some to look at under my microscope, to see if I can identify the various structures on these underappreciated plants.

From a conservation perspective, these adaptations are not curiosities, they have ecological consequences. Moss mats retain water like living sponges, regulate microclimates on forest floors, and influence nutrient cycling. They provide habitat and food for invertebrates and microfauna. In northern peatlands, sphagnum mosses accumulate carbon on a massive scale, forming deep peat deposits that are among the largest terrestrial carbon reservoirs on Earth. The health of these moss communities therefore has implications for global climate regulation, not just local biodiversity. Kimmerer takes care to show readers how mosses can be sentinels of environmental change. Their sensitivity to pollutants like sulphur dioxide made them valuable bioindicators of atmospheric quality in the 20th century. Today, shifts in moss distribution or reproductive success can signal changes in moisture regimes under climate change. As conservationists seek tools to monitor ecosystems over time, the humble moss offers a model for how small organisms can inform big picture science.

Perhaps the most distinctive element of Gathering Moss (and what truly sets it apart from typical natural history books) is Kimmerer’s integration of Indigenous ways of knowing with Western science. This integration is not superficial, it is an embodied ethic. She does not merely juxtapose Indigenous stories alongside scientific facts. Instead, she demonstrates how multiple epistemologies can coexist and enrich one another. For example, Kimmerer often describes how her Potawatomi heritage frames human relationships with plants as reciprocal rather than extractive. Mosses become teachers of humility, they do not signal dominance over a landscape but mutual presence within it. This relational view contrasts sharply with traditional conservation paradigms that tend to objectify nature as something to be managed, controlled, or optimised. From an ecological standpoint, this philosophical shift has pragmatic consequences. Conservation strategies grounded in reciprocity and respect tend to prioritise long-term ecosystem health, community engagement, and intergenerational stewardship. Kimmerer’s voice urges conservationists to move beyond conservation as mere protection and toward restoration that knits humans back into ecological communities. This is especially relevant in conversations about rewilding, Indigenous land stewardship, and co-management of protected areas, approaches that are increasingly recognised for their effectiveness in preserving biodiversity.

Kimmerer’s prose is another reason this book resonates. She writes with clarity and lyricism, avoiding both oversimplification and unnecessary jargon. For experts, there is enough technical richness to appreciate ecological nuance. For general readers, the language remains accessible, with vivid metaphors that conjure the sensory world of mosses, their plush carpets, jewel-like sporophytes, and subtle colours that shift with moisture. There is plenty here to satisfy most readers and to be able to picture mosses in your head, just as Kimmerer has seen them. This quality matters for conservation, because policy and protection often hinge on public perception. Mosses are rarely the subjects of charismatic campaigns in the way birds or butterflies are. Kimmerer’s evocation of mosses’ beauty and agency invites empathy. By the end of the book, a reader who initially felt indifferent to bryophytes comes to see them as entities worthy of attention and care (this was the effect the book had on me, it may have a different impact on you).

No book is without limitations, and from a scientific angle there are aspects that could be further strengthened. For example, while the book addresses ecological roles and adaptations in compelling ways, it sometimes assumes a level of botanical literacy that may challenge readers without prior plant science background, terms like ‘gametophyte’ and ‘sporophyte’ are explained, but the density of scientific content means some portions may require careful rereading. However, this challenge is also part of the book’s value. It does not condescend, instead inviting the reader to grow their understanding alongside the author. Additionally, because Gathering Moss blends science and Indigenous worldview, readers seeking strictly empirical monographs might find the cultural reflections unfamiliar. Yet from a contemporary conservation lens (one increasingly attentive to the social context of ecological work) this blending feels not just appropriate but necessary.

From the vantage point of 2026, the conservation issues raised by Gathering Moss feel especially urgent (despite the book first being published in 2003). Climate change, habitat fragmentation, and biodiversity loss have reconfigured global conservation priorities. Mosses, often overlooked in traditional monitoring programs, can function as early warning systems precisely because they respond quickly to environmental change. They are microcosms of resilience, and vulnerability. For example, peatland ecosystems dominated by sphagnum are recognised as critical for climate mitigation due to their carbon storage capacity. Yet these habitats are threatened by drainage, fire, and warming temperatures. Understanding the physiology and community dynamics of sphagnum, as Kimmerer explains, is essential for devising restoration techniques that can maintain peat accumulation. Likewise, in forests where canopy gaps and humidity drive bryophyte diversity, forest management practices that alter microclimate (such as clearcutting or heavy machinery use) can have outsized impacts on moss communities. Conservation biology increasingly emphasises function as well as species counts. Mosses play functional roles that scale up to influence ecosystem processes. Their presence or absence can affect seedling establishment, soil moisture retention, and nutrient cycling. Conservation planning that overlooks these foundational actors is incomplete. Gathering Moss makes this case intuitively and empirically: mosses are not background flora, they are keystones in many systems.

Ultimately, Gathering Moss is more than a book about bryophytes, it is a call to attentiveness. Kimmerer invites us to slow down, to observe the small and the subtle, and to recalibrate our sense of what counts as ecological significance. For conservationists trained to prioritise rare or endangered megafauna, this shift may be challenging, but it is precisely this shift that allows us to see the integrity of ecosystems as interdependent webs where even the tiniest organisms contribute to resilience. Her final chapters tie this attentiveness to practice: how to observe moss in the field, how to cultivate gratitude for the ordinary, and how to build an ethic of care that transcends scientific curiosity. These reflections resonate with contemporary movements in conservation that emphasise community science, ethical engagement, and inclusivity. Conservation is no longer solely about mapping species distributions or enforcing protected areas, it is about nurturing relationships among humans and nonhumans alike. Gathering Moss is therefore a remarkable book being thoughtful, enlightening, and transformative. As an ecologist, I found its natural history rich with insight. As a conservationist, I appreciate its ethical depth and its insistence that caring for the world requires more than data, it requires respect, humility, and reciprocity.

Robin Wall Kimmerer does not merely teach us about mosses, she reconnects us with a way of seeing the living world that is essential for the future of conservation. In a time when biodiversity loss is accelerating and human-environment relationships are under stress, this book stands as a reminder that even the smallest organisms can teach us big lessons, if we are willing to listen.

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