There was a fern that wanted to attach itself to a tree, the way an orchid hangs off driftwood. But ferns (such a goofy thing to be called) are supposed to sprout out of dirt, unkempt, like a full head of curly hair. The tree told the fern so. And anyway, there wasn't anything that the fern could do; it was not a vine that could creep along and wrap itself around the tree. It was staying where it was.
The fern dug its roots deep, long tendrils of root snaking their way deeper and deeper into the ground. Maybe the tendrils snaking underground could wind a path to the roots of the tree, and meander up, around the bark, latch on, and not let go. The fern had no idea that its roots can only dig down, and not all the way across another part of a garden. Maybe the tree had roots deep deep underground that the fern's roots could tangle with eventually. But how could the fern be sure? Do fern roots go that far?
The pain of the whole thing is that the tree was just there—had the fern been a weed, it would take only a week or so to cover the ground and join the tree's base. Had the fern been a vine, it would have been a matter of nothing to crawl over branches of the one or two plants between them, and say hello. (Or would it? The fern really wasn't sure; it was a fern and not a vine.) Best yet, if the fern had been a sunflower, it would have faced towards the sun, period. No more orienting itself towards a tree, perhaps. Needless to say, if only the fern had been a whole host of things that it wasn't, things would have been different. And needless to say, amidst all of this, the tree was just there.
The fern didn't even know what was so important about growing on the tree. It had never wanted—does not want to be—an orchid or any other aerial plant. A fern it is, and a fern it intends to stay. Just growing on a tree.
And so the fern digs its roots down, knowing that it is digging down, and not across to where the tree was (just there). Someday, the fern would learn that some things grow in pots, some things grow in water, and not everything grows on trees.
The fern dug its roots deep, long tendrils of root snaking their way deeper and deeper into the ground. Maybe the tendrils snaking underground could wind a path to the roots of the tree, and meander up, around the bark, latch on, and not let go. The fern had no idea that its roots can only dig down, and not all the way across another part of a garden. Maybe the tree had roots deep deep underground that the fern's roots could tangle with eventually. But how could the fern be sure? Do fern roots go that far?
The pain of the whole thing is that the tree was just there—had the fern been a weed, it would take only a week or so to cover the ground and join the tree's base. Had the fern been a vine, it would have been a matter of nothing to crawl over branches of the one or two plants between them, and say hello. (Or would it? The fern really wasn't sure; it was a fern and not a vine.) Best yet, if the fern had been a sunflower, it would have faced towards the sun, period. No more orienting itself towards a tree, perhaps. Needless to say, if only the fern had been a whole host of things that it wasn't, things would have been different. And needless to say, amidst all of this, the tree was just there.
The fern didn't even know what was so important about growing on the tree. It had never wanted—does not want to be—an orchid or any other aerial plant. A fern it is, and a fern it intends to stay. Just growing on a tree.
And so the fern digs its roots down, knowing that it is digging down, and not across to where the tree was (just there). Someday, the fern would learn that some things grow in pots, some things grow in water, and not everything grows on trees.
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