For the love of Fern

The word dinosaur comes up every time I'm in a conversation about Fern. Weird, right?

Turns out pteridology is the name given to the study of Fern. Sounds like pterodactyl to me.

Fern feels old.

As it happens, some species of Fern are over 400 million years old. That's older than dinosaurs.

In the human world, getting to be old implies survival, and survival implies a fight. That's why old people are salty.

Scars come from a fight, though their infliction story is healed by the time we call them that.

It bugs me that we have to fight sometimes to make it through. But if my unborn child were to get attacked on the street I sure as heaven hope she'd fight.

A fight wakes us up. All of a sudden we remember we don't want to be here, but now we're in it, and we have to take it to its resolution.

Scars are also interesting. They make us feel three dimensional because they're evidence of our crevasses. Beneath our day to day lies our history of pain, and it shows up once and a while.

It's so humbling to act out my pain because it doesn't feel like the sweet and lovely me I like to believe makes up all of me. Yet I'm thankful for it because it reminds me my humanity. And my strength, too.

Maybe that's why, at first, I didn't care for Fern. There's a fight in Fern that reminds me mine.

But there's a flipside to this story, because the other half of this paradox is that at first, I didn't notice Fern.

Fern is a staple in an old growth forest. It appears unremarkable so awestruck are we by the living bones in front of us. The forest of the Pacific North West is like that, all pillars and spaciousness. Jaw dropping leads to eyes lifting, and Fern lives near the ground. It's common, too.

I often have the hardest time noticing what's right in front of me. Have you ever looked for the glasses on your face? That's humbling all right.

But repetition has a way of working something into our consciousness.

Like media advertising I suppose. Or med school.

One day you just pay more attention, not because you tried but because you were wooed. With age come scars and with scars come stories, and to hear the stories we must establish trust. I think of how a salty person moves through the world and it doesn't involve blabbing heroicism. The salty are mysterious - and this is how they reel in the curious, those hungry for wisdom.

Fern feels rhythmic. It's the bass line of the forest floor. There's a safety to its rhythm; it grounds the spaciousness.

Also, Fern doesn't bother with a flowering. It's funny how panache feels ridiculous during famine, or drought.

So what's the lesson?

Fern says: "I'm old. I don't care if you notice me. I'm wiser than you'll ever be, and only if you really come to know me will I reveal my story.

But I do have polka dots on the underside of my fronds, and this is how I call to children.

And I do put on a show once a year in spring, if you care to attend. It's a concert piece called The Fiddleheads and we really do have a carefree approach to rebirth. I'm not all mystery and scars.

I too have found the lightness of this world, because otherwise, I would not have survived."

Scars remain but they also fade. The wisdom is not in the scar, it's in the healing. And the healing is evidenced by our willingness to unfurl over and over and over again in spite of the scars. Opening our heart to the world each time is saying we're ready to play again.

Perhaps the flipside of wisdom is simply, play.

Thanks for being here.

Izzy <3