fernbrain

fernbrain is an overlooked symptom of coronavirus. to be precise, it is not the virus itself, but rather a syndrome facilitated by coronavirus quarantine. the symptoms include: long staring at fern patches, long staring at parts of your yard that do not contain ferns, impulsive fern dividing and replanting, hyperfocused fern watering, wandering in circles monitoring fern health, anxiety at the approaching end of fern transplant season, excessive photographing of ferns and fern parts, occasionally sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night shouting the word, “ferns!”, and, in its final stages, furtive stroking of, and in extreme cases, talking to, ferns you have come to think of as friends. wait, what was that? water? i’m coming honey! hang in there!

ostrich fern fronds in early spring

may madness

channeling my inner karl blossfeldt while i indulge my fascination with ferns.

emergent lady fern fronds

p.s. i am 99% sure these are emergent lady ferns, but if there are any fern experts out there who could either confirm or deny, i would greatly appreciate it.

fern-mad

i have spent the better part of the last two weeks moving ferns around in my yard. i am obsessed. ten days ago i tripped over a computer cord (we have three students in the house doing distance learning) and i either broke or seriously jammed my big toe. so, the bulk of my obsessive digging up and transplanting of heavy shovelfuls of dirt, has been performed with a strained toe. did i mention i was obsessed?

by the way, i am sure i have at least four types of ferns in my care, the four in this photo–maidenhair, lady, sensitive, and ostrich. and i have a keen eye on few strays that i think might be cinnamon ferns. i love my charges.

ferns: maidenhair, lady, sensitive, ostrich

sea floor forest floor.

my husband pulled this plant before it had begun to sprout, and neither of us knew what it was. it looked like a sea fan or an anemone tucked into its sheath, ready to extend little fingers into the current. what emerged instead was a jack-in-the-pulpit, which means we will be restoring this little anemone back where it belongs, with wind for current, and fertile soil for sandy bottom.

jack in the pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum)

acts of service

have you taken the love languages test? if not, i recommend it. my love language is “acts of service.”  last night i agreed to help my husband steve set up a better work flow system for his off-tax season writing career. in exchange, he asked “what can i do for you?”.  i suggested he take a walk around the yard and gather everything that caught his eye and represented what nature was doing in exactly this place, on exactly this day. he did that, and then stuck around to  help me make a spring STILL assemblage. a worthy double act of service.

spring gatherings from one walk on may 10, 2020