Fresh Growth
and Patience
I don’t remember the first time I saw a maidenhair fern, which is odd, because I’m captivated by them. I don’t know exactly how many I’ve bought and killed, or let die because I didn’t know how to care for them, each one has passed on with a sigh of regret and disappointment from me.
How could they be so persnickety and delicate? I guess that’s part of what draws me to them—their stems are spindly, featherweight, and about the size of an eyelash in diameter. Their medallion-like fronds fall like little coins in shades of green ranging from lime to forest. When they are healthy, I don’t think there’s a prettier specimen, but I’ve come to know there’s a lot to know to about healthy maidenhair ferns.
If you Google how to care for one it sounds easy enough: no direct sunlight but it does need significant indirect light, soil that is neither too moist nor too dry, and as close to 50% humidity as is possible. Easier said than done. I think I’ve had four of five maidenhairs now—as I said, I don’t remember—I’d sworn off of them, but I was sucked back in on a visit to my my favorite garden store in town, Creekside.
She was beautiful but not too big. I posited that a smaller one would be easier to lose. And I knew I would lose her, because I always lost them. But it wasn’t that big an investment, so I thought, “why not give it one more try?” She came home with me.
I first put her on my writing table in the library. That didn’t get great results. Her fronds were dry and brown but her roots were wet—I took her to the kitchen to dry her out a little, and consulted the Planta app. “Mist the leaves,” it said. I also took her to another place in the house, what I call the garden room because it’s where the majority of the houseplants are and you pass through it to get to the back courtyard. It gets a lot of light and those plants that must come inside for the winter live there too. Anyway—I named her Maiden. I started talking to her. I started misting her everyday. I misted her partners to the left and right of her, two more, yet heartier and healthier ferns. I increased the humidity.
And I was about to give up as only a few stems with pitiful looking fronds remained. But as I considered the last gasps of yet another delicate goldilocks in plant form, I saw a few new ones. Sweet, little pale green sprouts of fronds. “Wow,” I thought. “This is a first.”
It’s okay to keep trying. It’s okay to fail too. But I think failure stings the least when we allow ourselves grace for the things we don’t know. We’re here to learn. I think sometimes we forget that and expect too much of ourselves and others. Sometimes we try to do things we don’t know how to do. For instance, have a relationship when our models, those who taught us how to do it, were downright horrendous. If I had been a maidenhair fern living in my parents house, I wouldn’t have lasted a week. No water, no misting, no light. I’m rather like some sort of ivy or other trailing plant—seeking, moving, hanging on.
I think every experience teaches me how to be better. As I grow older, my boundaries grow stronger and I am much more comfortable being alone if they somehow don’t work for others. Solitude bolsters my self-respect and I find it easy to be disciplined in my own spaces, but remaining centered in myself when I’m negotiating with others still causes me panic from time to time. I’m still wrestling with the subconscious idea that I can’t be trusted with myself. I’m getting there. It is proving to require much of my focus. That’s okay—it feels like good work to do. The truth is, making any kind of art requires a commitment of self that by necessity shuts out the rest of the world, so the boundaries are part of the job. I’m excited to see what 2026 will bring as I continue to grow into myself. I am not the same person I was a year ago. And I’m certainly not the one I was two years ago. My perspective has shifted significantly and I’m better for it. I’m seeing things I couldn’t see and I’m doing things I couldn’t do then. I’m strong in places I thought were broken and peaceful in a way that surprises me.
It’s been a sweet holiday season so far. Good friends, good food, good visiting, but not too much and that’s a relief. Everyone I talked to before Christmas seemed out of breath and wide-eyed, saying it was too much, but going full-steam ahead. I wondered why we continue to allow it all to be too much, why we don’t simplify? So, that’s what I did this year. I did the decorating I could do in an afternoon and I didn’t go overboard with gifts, and that felt great. I think a lot of us are over excess in all the ways.
Speaking of such, have y’all heard of Swedish Death Cleaning? I’m intrigued.
Almost as much fun as putting it all up is taking it all down and having a clearer space again. So, now that John Henry has gone on his annual trip with his father, I’ll dismantle it and prepare for my own vacation for which I leave tomorrow.
I’ve been painting a lot and there will be ladies in the shop soon. I can’t wait to share these with y’all—they are spirited, imperfect sketches but somehow they have my soul right now. One art form leads to the next for me—they are somehow characters in The Healing Places (that’s the working title of the novel) as I think I’m looking for the matriarch(s). Anyway—I’ll get them up for sale soon and remember that paid subscribers get access twenty-four hours before everyone else and a 20% discount.
I’ll be back soon.
A very happy holiday season to each of you.
Peace. Love.
Allison
Although not the same plant, the hearty "Northern Maidenhair Fern" (Adiantum pedantum) is a beautiful native fern that should do well in a shady section of your outdoor garden. Its shiny black thready stems and mitten-like fronds are delightful. The plants are impossibly delicate when they emerge in Spring (they look like tiny pink curly worms sticking out of the soil...so easy to overlook and step on). Once they mature and the black stems harden up, they are tough little beauties. Give 'em a try!
It’s funny how plants can grow without any extra care anywhere outside; as opposed to the moment you bring them inside.