These little fern fronds, drained of chlorophyll for the season, present their ghostly pallor in the dim corridors along the garden path. They almost glow, even as dusk descends – the last holdouts of summer light, grossly transfigured into these decaying remnants, soon to collapse on the winter floor. They are tiny things, as seen compared to the pine needles beneath them. Everything is falling to the ground these days. We all feel a little smaller.
A wisp.
A chill.
An air.
And a song.
Certain music casts an unbreakable spell, but only for those who understand how to listen. A lost art these days – so many of us just wait for the next turn to speak, the next opportunity to allow our own particular diamonds to sparkle. It should be enough to bask in the glow of another’s genius, but it rarely is. I don’t blame us – we all want only to shine.
Yet when the orchestrations and the chorus kicks in on this song, it’s a transformative moment – achieved only through the participation of many. It’s the same way with plants that make an impression. Hundreds of ferns must rise for a swath, and for the greatest effect they must bend and unfurl in the same fashion. They must ride the wind together, in unison, in tandem, in togetherness. Only then will the magnitude of their power be felt.
