Sweet Fern

I have been walking a bit, lately, various circuits around the neighborhood; and this plant caught my eye.  But it's odd, this time: it didn't shout at me, and it didn't really even 'catch' my eye; I just sort of slowly became aware of it.

I've lived in this neighborhood pretty much all my life; I live in the childhood home, which is mine now.  I've seen this plant all my life.  But I never really saw it, I don't think.

I never knew what it was called.  I knew that it sometimes grew right up next to bayberry, and that it was frequently in the company of oak trees and pines, so, it preferred sandy soil; and I knew that it smelled really lovely, similar to bayberry yet its own distinct thing, like cinnamon and cloves are similar yet very different.  I know, or I think, that it releases its scent with the afternoon sun.  But I didn't know its name.

I had a Hel of a time figuring that out.  It doesn't seem to have been studied much, and matching up the picture in my head to a Googleable description was pretty tough.  But after a couple of hours I found it.

It's Comptonia peregrina, also known as sweet fern.  It is related to bayberry, or at least in the same general family; it's the only Comptonia out there, though.  It is also, of course, not a fern.

Once I found the name I searched for herbal information on it and found very little.  It's not in any of my magical herb books, nor in my dye books; the internet wasn't much help, either.  It appears to have been overlooked a bit, just like I had overlooked it all my life while still recognizing it.  But there was a reason I was noticing it now, so I journeyed to See.

I found it growing in that little herb garden behind the Tree.  Well, it wasn't quite in the garden, but growing outside of it by the stone wall.  The stones were warm still from being in the sunshine; I sat down next to it and said Hello.

I asked then if it would be okay to talk to it; I got a feeling of warmth, so took that as a yes.  I showed it the picture I'd done (the one above), as offering.

Now, sometimes with these shamanish plant talks the plant's 'voice' is loud and clear; this time I got ideas and themes, not quite pictures but like pictures in that there was a lot of information without words that I then had to sort.

I first got the word 'exotic', with the picture of the sun shining off a golden coin necklace; then 'native,' which struck me as a paradox.  It is a native plant to the east coast and New England, unlike the invasive/European ones I've 'talked to' before.  But there was something of myrrh to it, like it was the local version of frankincense.  It was a paradox, and it made perfect sense.

I asked it what I wanted to tell me.  Yes, it was native, native like me.  Yes, it was familiar, and ordinary; yet when the sun came out and warmed the leaves that exotic fragrance was released.  There was a lesson there.

I feel I should point out that when I say 'native' that I don't mean Native American; I'm not.  That was the word I got, though, very strongly, and I take it to mean 'born here' (though strictly speaking I was born the next state over), and that I've lived here, in this neighborhood, almost all of my life.  I am native to this particular patch of land.  There is birth, and childhood, and growing up inherent in that word, native.  Familiar also is a good word: like family, it means.

It then told me to simmer the leaves as a tea, but only for the scent; she (it was a she, though not very strongly) said it would lift the spirits and clear the mind, and heal both mind and body.   Like athelas, I thought (that miracle weed Aragorn used for everything in the Lord of the Rings); I felt the sweet fern be pleased at that analogy.  So sweet fern is good against the Black Breath (in JRRT's secondary world) or against the Dementors (in JK Rowling's world).  And that I can definitely use, given that I live with an emotional vampire.

There was something else, though, something about it that allowed it to remain hidden or overlooked while still shining and being beautiful.  Something about it has a bit of misdirection to it, which given my circumstances is probably why it caught my attention.  It is hard to shine when you live with a vampire; they eat light, after all.   She then told me to put the dried leaves in a sachet with the sigil of The Closed Eye, which was new to me.  A 180 degree arc, like the bottom half of a circle (only with no diameter line), with small rays coming out of it, like a closed eye with eyelashes, or the part of the sun below the horizon at sunset.    That kind of concealment.  It shines, and very brightly, but not where a certain audience can see it.  And I can use that.

It said one more thing still; that it was also about having or making strong roots, especially in regards to place.  And that is also very helpful for me right now.

When it was finished I thanked it, and then breathed on it as a further offering.  I think it was pleased.