walkingwiththunder.com
N. exaltata
By Conrad Beaubien
It was weighing on me. As frost moved into the valley this past November I gathered whatever houseplants I had been enjoying outdoors and brought them in. You know the way it goes when we never seem to grasp the reality of how much space plants are liable to consume when parked indoors here and there along window shelves and any flat surface even remotely close to window light; our decision-making process undoubtedly is swayed with winter frost nipping at our heels. Blind to space—all dimensions—we jump right into last-minute plant rescue until, well until your home takes on the role of a seaport where every ship out there has sought refuge from an advancing storm simply by dropping anchor on your kitchen table.
But it’s now January and a bunch of those ships are moored over in the studio and guilt has set in. I mean we have an innate sense to treat all of those in our care on an equally fair basis; okay so maybe one of your cats is more attentive because it purrs louder in your ear than the others, but in this case it seems that I have a subtle need to bring at least one of the grocery store ferns I bought last summer over to the house to purr beside me if for no other than the selfish reason I can subdue the shame of neglect that is, enough so as not to disturb afternoon naps.
Anyone who enjoys the lushness of nephrolepis exaltata, also known as the sword fern, is also aware that when stressed by cold or is parched the leaves or fronds die off; the shedding is easier to ignore when the plant is outside, but when indoors, all I can say is keep a garden rake or industrial vacuum handy unless you prefer the texture of a pine forest floor wherever a fern is wintering. As I dug into the family tree, so to speak, of the fern I have learned that when one frond of the original sword fern was discovered in a shipment from a Philadelphia grower to a Boston distributor in 1894, the nom de plume was hatched.
Being a softie when it comes to all living things (the squirrels in my attic are not on the list) I then found it hard that I had favoured only one of three ferns and imagined them as a small family keeping each other company as they huddled together over in the studio building meanwhile their human custodian proved to be a fair weather friend only and after all, his uncaring attitude went next level by taking one family member into the house and darn right ignored the rest. I don’t know how mind chatter gets wound up like that and can somehow retrieve every occasion in the past forty years where I may have neglected caring for a plant.
Okay, so after breathing exercises and meditations on mindfulness and sipping rose hip tea, I invite you to imagine a room with the dimensions of a tool shed, but with lots of morning sun, as I grope about looking for my belongings through a forest of reasonably contented ferns; ferns that have now been encouraging me to consult YouTube to learn how they should be treated. Sheesh! Now I am forgoing naps because I am pressured into being a proper fern caregiver, learning how much watering is too much and when to water and how not to overwater and on and on. I will admit this. There is certain satisfaction over morning coffee when, singing to my ferns with scissors in hand, I attempt to prune dead fronds so that my plants take on that extra exaltata look rather than simply large pots wearing joker’s caps. Even with the appearance of having a bad hair day I want to believe that ferns have a forgiving quality about them.
Maybe by next winter a plan will have been worked out in advance if for no other reason that I can hibernate through these months at peace with the universe and not be haunted by the voices of ferns past.
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