Just try and analyze why something “grabs” you; it’s hard to do, and harder to put into words. A friend of mine said something about being protective of her ferns several months ago, long before the unfurling of the ostrich fern, and it spun me off into a reverie on ferns. She didn’t explain her thoughts or feelings, but it hit something within nevertheless. I began to really take in what to me is much more than background filler in the woods.
David and I have a whole bank of ostrich ferns that live just down the road from us, and we watch eagerly for the emergence of the fiddleheads in the spring. It’s not about snipping them as the first spring tonic; it’s about an elegant arrival. I worry, in fact, when I am picking them for supper, that I will take too many and the bank will not be filled with green praise as it should be, and it will be my fault. I snap my hand basket as full as I dare and take it home in glee and half regret, wondering if I have done harm. Two weeks later they have all come up, unfurled and the bank is full again. My place among them has been completely hidden, and I am amazed -so many, so full of living green, so fine and handsome and feather-like, covering the body of the bird of spring. Vivaldi must have been written his best season with these in mind.
At camp, in the hills of northwestern Massachusetts live the prettiest stand of cinnamon ferns I know of. Cinnamon ferns grow in a circle around a central spire of seed that resembles a cinnamon stick. And, the fern bunches often grown in a circle as well, so it is a community of family groups of ferns each dancing around it’s own beautiful offspring. The order and design and what it seems to point toward charms me.
Ferns are shade lovers, and as we walk up the valley on a Sabbath afternoon, we gasp at the delicacy of the maiden hair fern. They hang like waterfalls off their semi-circle stalk and bounce in the slightest breeze. Touch them and they barely feel like anything – hardly there and yet, oh, so beautiful. And green.
My friend who is so protective of her ferns, enjoys the color green the most. I would not think to say that green is my favorite color. But I know that green is necessary to my soul; it is the color of life and of growth. I feed on green, drinking it in like wine, especially when the sun shines through it.
David and I have a whole bank of ostrich ferns that live just down the road from us, and we watch eagerly for the emergence of the fiddleheads in the spring. It’s not about snipping them as the first spring tonic; it’s about an elegant arrival. I worry, in fact, when I am picking them for supper, that I will take too many and the bank will not be filled with green praise as it should be, and it will be my fault. I snap my hand basket as full as I dare and take it home in glee and half regret, wondering if I have done harm. Two weeks later they have all come up, unfurled and the bank is full again. My place among them has been completely hidden, and I am amazed -so many, so full of living green, so fine and handsome and feather-like, covering the body of the bird of spring. Vivaldi must have been written his best season with these in mind.
At camp, in the hills of northwestern Massachusetts live the prettiest stand of cinnamon ferns I know of. Cinnamon ferns grow in a circle around a central spire of seed that resembles a cinnamon stick. And, the fern bunches often grown in a circle as well, so it is a community of family groups of ferns each dancing around it’s own beautiful offspring. The order and design and what it seems to point toward charms me.
Ferns are shade lovers, and as we walk up the valley on a Sabbath afternoon, we gasp at the delicacy of the maiden hair fern. They hang like waterfalls off their semi-circle stalk and bounce in the slightest breeze. Touch them and they barely feel like anything – hardly there and yet, oh, so beautiful. And green.
My friend who is so protective of her ferns, enjoys the color green the most. I would not think to say that green is my favorite color. But I know that green is necessary to my soul; it is the color of life and of growth. I feed on green, drinking it in like wine, especially when the sun shines through it.
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