HAVE A SEAT!

Inanimate things for a change. Enjoy!

1. Have a socially distanced seat outside Pelican Bay Used Bookstore and Cafe. Anacortes, Washington.

2. Have a seat and a cigarette break in an alley behind a restaurant. Maybe you can use those three red lines to center yourself. Kirkland, Washington.

3. Have a seat – or maybe not – in this overturned chair by a canal. Amsterdam, Netherlands.

4. Have a seat on a bench in a garden and take pictures with your Lensbaby. Bellevue Botanical Garden, Bellevue, Washington.

5. Have a seat if you dare, at the far end of a long, dark tunnel that was once used to store ammunition to protect New York harbors. Fort Totten, Queens, New York.

6. If you don’t mind getting your bottom wet, have a seat at Urban Coffee Lounge on a rainy winter afternoon. Kirkland, Washington.

7. Have a seat in Seattle’s Westlake Park alongside Steinunn Thorarinsdottir’s sculptures and various local characters. Seattle, Washington.

8. Have a seat and another cigarette break in an alley in Kirkland, Washington.

9. Have a fashionably quaint seat next to an abandoned railroad track behind Januik Winery. Woodinville, Washington.

10. Have a seat and reminisce at the Old Town Bar and Restaurant on East 18th St. New York, NY.

11. Have a seat in an antique chair in the kitchen of an airbnb and when you’re sufficiently rested, walk over to the Fairfax Flea Market and try this cushier chair with gold cut-velvet upholstery. It will reflect well on your taste. Los Angeles, California.

12. Have a seat on the street across from Watts Towers. Los Angeles, California.

13. Scale this restaurant facade and see if you can have a seat on the artwork. Hannover, Germany.

14. You’ll probably be grateful for this seat outdoors after visiting a patient at Banner – University Medical Center Hospital. Phoenix, Arizona.

15. Have a seat and commune with a Buddha statue at Ksitigarbha Temple. Lynnwood, Washington.

16. Have a seat in an old straight-back chair I found at an estate sale for $5.00. Kirkland, Washington.

17. Have a seat on the Edmonds – Kingston ferry and feel the breeze. Somewhere in Puget Sound, Washington.

18. Have a seat across from this busy commuter on the Staten Island Ferry. New York harbor, NY, NY.

19. Have a seat on a bike if you can unlock the lock, or unsnap the cover from this vintage MG Midget and grab a seat while the owner’s inside eating. Aren’t you bad! Leiden, Netherlands and Malibu, California.

20. Have a seat in the truck and deliver fresh eggs to the produce store. Malty Produce Market, Maltby, Washington.

21. Have a seat here and you’re in big trouble. ‘Under the Table’ by Robert Therrien, at the Broad Museum. Los Angeles, California.

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FIRE & WATER

Spring has been wet here. With lots of rain falling on weekends and less on weekdays, it hasn’t been fun for those with regular jobs who want to get out on their days off. Farmers must be happy though, and wildfires are less likely, at least for now. The Pacific Northwest is known for rain but summers here are actually bone dry, so wildfires become a concern if summer is preceded by a dry spring or winter. This spring, however, fire is far from my mind as I organize my outings for short spells of dry air that may follow a gloomy, morning fog. Ducking out between showers on a damp trail that skirts a lake or leads to views of the Salish Sea, I’m always aware of water. Fire’s role in the local ecology is less evident, but is still clearly visible in the stands of burned trees, charred logs and fresh, green growth around blackened stumps. With water and fire in mind, here is a selection of photos that call attention to these two primal elements.

1. Dangerous currents roiling through a narrow passage reveal the relentless power of water.

2. Evidence of a fire in a forest near Twisp, Washington.

3. Water in its frozen state is an uncommon sight on Fidalgo Island. Luckily, I was out for a walk in the woods when this gentle snow shower began.

4. Charred tree trunks and scarce undergrowth tell fire’s story.

5. Sitting in the car, watching the rain.

6. The ground is littered with burned wood for a long time after a fire. As it decomposes it adds nutrients to the soil.

7. Rain clings to the long needles of a Shore pine, a close relative of Lodgepole pine. In the Pacific Northwest, people complain about “June Gloom.” Rainy days like the one last week when I took this photo are frequent, and frustrating.

8. Grass casts a shadow on a log burned in a 2014 fire started by people building a campfire on a dry day, in a place where campfires aren’t allowed.

9. The pretty Lyall’s star tulip *(Calochortus lyallii)* wet with raindrops, graces a field on the eastern slope of the North Cascade Mountain Range.

10. Daisies encircle a burned stump in a field overcome by fire two summers ago, less than a mile from where I live.

11. Trees died from flooding when this lake was created. On the hill in the background, just out of sight, a fire raged six years ago.

12. The burned, shredded bark of Madrone trees is a common sight on Fidalgo Island.

13. A small waterfall in the foothills of the North Cascades.

14. Fire is frequent on the dry, eastern side of the North Cascades. Evergreen foliage is a rusty orange color and tree trunks are charred black from a fire that once burned hot but now nourishes the soil.

15. Slender branches scrape the surface of a lake, mixing with reflections of other branches, creating a rippling chaos of light and shadow.

16. A Yellow-pine chipmunk that has seen its share of tussles (look at those ears!) watches me carefully from a safe perch in a charred Lodgepole pine on the east side of the Cascades.

17. Early spring fog and morning dew at home.

18. Charred bark at the sight of the same fire as photo #8.

19. Some of these trees were burned, others were drowned. They stand and then fall in a lake frequented by fish, otters, beavers, ducks and more creatures, all part of patterns of interdependence that are more complex than we know.

20. Another example of water and fire: the trees were killed by a fire up here at Washington Pass (elev. 5,476′ or 1669m).

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Most of these photos were taken on Fidalgo Island; some are from the other side of the mountains, where dry conditions prevail much of the year. The activity of water and fire is something experienced by every creature on this earth, but the particular way these elements operate is unique to each location on our planet. Fire’s history here on Fidalgo Island is different from it’s history in Kansas or Kazakhstan. I think it’s worthwhile getting to know the elements intimately, in your own locale. How often does it snow? What are the textures of your snow, and what is the scent of rain on a hot day where you live? How often does fire tear across the fields, if at all? Are there native plants or animals where you live that are adapted to periodic fires? And what about the human relationship to water and fire – where does fear come in? What about the need to control? And what about capitalism?

Humans seem to have increasingly difficult relationships to fire and water. We understand that we are dependent on water and fire for our very lives, but we want them to stay in their places. We keep thinking that we know where those places are, even when time and time again, floods and fires prove otherwise. Instead of being flexible and working with water and fire, we stiffen and create inflexible environments amidst changing circumstances. We build houses in all the wrong places, encroaching further and further into places where wildfires or floods are very likely to occur. Fires or floods can be natural components of great cycles that we refuse to recognize or cannot imagine. At the same time, our frenzied activity has modified the earth’s climate and made wildfires and floods bigger and more frequent than we can remember them ever being before.

What’s the answer? Draw back. Pay attention. Don’t build in places where fire is part of the natural order of things; don’t build where flooding from storms is part of the balance of nature. Work with and respect fire and water and cut back on activities that pollute and warm the earth. I know that I’m preaching to the choir here, but there are probably still things we can each do to support working in harmony with water and fire instead of against them. And we can get closer to the elements, get intimate and comfortable with their activities in our own back yards. They’re not separate – they are us.

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MORE MAY RAMBLES

The first day of summer is just over a week away. Before we bask in the warmth of the lush season and spring fades to a dream, I want to share a few more images from May, specifically, the last two weeks of May (images from early May are here).

As our state slowly, carefully emerges from the COVID restrictions, the county where I live is now beginning to open restaurants and retail businesses. It’s good to see people sitting at tables in coffee shops again and not just getting their drinks to go. It will be nice to see stores opening too, but I really long to travel, at least for an overnight road trip. I’m not sure when that will be feasible. We’re watching to see how other counties fare as they open more businesses and people move around more. In the meantime, we did take a few day trips last month, at places that are an hour or two away. I still spend lots of time in local parks and there’s plenty to see right here at home, too:

1. The old bamboo birdcage takes on new life surrounded my late May’s super-saturated greens.

2. Afternoon sunlight in the forest at Pass Lake, Deception Pass State Park. These are Red Huckleberry bushes *(Vaccinium parvifolium)*, a common understory plant in our woods.

3. Another detail, the same day. These two photographs were made with a vintage Takumar 50mm f1.4 lens, using spot metering in the camera.

4. And now for something completely different…a fallen tree in the bay at Larrabee State Park. The San Juan Islands are seen on the horizon; behind them is Vancouver Island, Canada.

5. Rock close-ups from Larrabee. The rock looks smooth to the touch but it feels granular and rough. A chemical weathering process in the sandstone is continuously changing the shape of these rocks (which I have featured in previous posts).

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6. A peaceful view from Larrabee, looking out over Salish Sea waters toward the San Juans.

7. One day we explored Northern State Hospital, a decommissioned state mental health facility that operated between 1912 and 1976. Mental health treatment has never been as compassionate as one would like, especially at the state level. However, there were positive aspects to treatment here: the facility was in a beautiful, rural setting and patients could get involved in farm work. There was a library, a greenhouse, and opportunities for recreation. Still, most or all of the patients were there involuntarily. Many of them didn’t have any mental illnesses but were people who didn’t fit in with prevailing norms and lacked the means to get by on their own.

8. The romantically decrepit wooden buildings at Northern State attract their share of photographers and people who are just there to hang out. Signs stating that buildings are not safe to enter are ignored. Having worked closely with seriously mentally ill adults in the past and remembering their suffering, I quickly became tired of wandering around a place that feels haunted by painful memories.

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10. A Douglas fir (left) snuggles up to a Madrone tree at Washington Park. A perfect example of different bark textures.

11. Interesting textures on driftwood at Deception Pass. The brown circles are probably a rim lichen, or *Lecanora.* Orange and blue-green patches are lichens, too.

12. A Great Blue heron fishes under a massive rock covered with lichens, moss and plants. Bowman Bay, Deception Pass State Park. Scenes like this one make my day.

13. Sixty miles southeast of home at the edge of the Boulder River Wilderness, the Neiderprum trail climbs into the North Cascades. One weekday we followed part of the trail, beginning alongside Moose Creek, where I found this fading Western buttercup *(Ranunculus occidentalis)* hanging over the rushing waters.

14. The light changed a few steps away where delicate Piggy-back plants *(Tolmiea menziesii)* also dangled over the creek. This native wildflower in the Saxifrage family is called Piggyback plant (or Youth-on-age) because buds develop into new plants at the base of leaves. These plants can drop off and root in the soil.

15. A quick shot out the window as we left the mountains.

16. So far, it’s been a good year for moss. These photos were made in different places – the sight of old leaves decomposing on a thick bed of moss is a common one here.

17. A snail leaves a slime trail on the moss and heads across a dog lichen, or Peltigera. This is probably a Pacific sideband snail, a hermaphroditic land snail that employs “love darts” in courtship. The small, arrow-shaped dart is fired on contact. If it pierces the receiving snail, mucous is released that aids sperm movement, which benefits reproduction. From Wikipedia: The mucus carries an allohormone that is transferred into the recipient snail’s hemolymph when the dart is stabbed. This allohormone reconfigures the female component of the reproductive system in the receiving individual: the bursa copulax (sperm digestion organ) becomes closed off, and the copulatory canal (leading to the sperm storage) is opened. This reconfiguration allows more sperm to access the sperm storage area and fertilize eggs, rather than being digested. Ultimately this increases the shooter’s paternity. Do you have more respect for snails now??

18. A tangle of lichen that fell out of a tree, probably Old Man’s Beard, or *Usnea longissima*. When pieces are blown off of tree branches some of them are sure to land in hospitable places. That simple process disperses the lichen – like seeds blown by the wind disperse flowering plants. Old Man’s Beard: a lovely, rootless vagabond. (The orange objects are the male, pollen-bearing cones of Douglas firs, and right now they’re everywhere!).

19. A surprisingly tropical-looking scene at the edge of the woods at Cornet Bay, Deception Pass State Park. The orange flowers are Orange honeysuckle *(Lonicer*a *ciliosa)*. The pink ones are the native Nootka rose *(Rosa nutkana).* The ferns are Western bracken; the aggressive bracken fern is found all over the world.

20. A Deer fern *(Blechnum spicant)* performing the annual spring dance of frond unfolding. Foraged by deer, the plant was also used medicinally by some indigenous people. It is appreciated in shade gardens here and abroad and is known as Hard fern in England.

21. Sword fern, our most common fern, continued to unfurl new fronds in May. At home I watched in great annoyance as a deer nibbled just the tips of 6 or 7 new fronds one day, ruining the graceful vase shape of the plant. But since then, no more leaves have been sampled so I’ll allow it. The deer’s mantra seems to be, “A little of this, a little of that.” 🙂

“A desk is a dangerous place from which to watch the world.” – John Le Carre

JUST ONE: Maidenhair Fern…

AND THOUGHTS ON AMERICA’S HISTORY OF RACISM

Last night and the night before I watched violence in the streets of Seattle on TV as events unfolded before the eyes of the public. Live news coverage of protests continued for hours, but it only took a few minutes for me to feel depressed, weary, exhausted, and hopeless. A reporter made the point that these protests – or was that even the right word for burning cars and looting? – looked different from Seattle’s 1999 WTO protests, when a World Trade Organization meeting was confronted with tens of thousands of protesters blocking delegates’ access and an overwhelmed, unprepared police force. That time, protestors had a clear target: globalization. In contrast, there was a randomness to these protests; as a woman expressed disappointment that her planned, peaceful demonstration had been hijacked, looters ran behind her with North Face jackets over their arms and cars went up in flames.

Underpinning it all, the driver of the current crop of violence and protests is our long history of racism, a history that, in my mind, we have not even begun to address. No wonder George Floyd is dead, no wonder Trayvon Martin lost his life. No wonder Eric Garner is dead, no wonder Ahmaud Arbery lost his life. The list goes on and on, back to the men and women who died on slave ships on their way to what – the promised land? Our country hasn’t faced what we did and keep doing, we haven’t made restitution, we have turned away. The turning away is profound and results in so much loss – loss of life, loss of dignity, loss of possibility.

I grew up in profound ignorance of this part of America’s story. Surely there were discussions of slavery in our grade school history lessons, but in our all-white classroom it wouldn’t have seemed very real. I don’t remember even seeing a person of color until I was ten, when we traveled from our quiet, upstate New York neighborhood to southern Georgia. My eyes were wide as we drove past a black woman weaving baskets for sale by the side of the road. My heart leaped at the sound of a quartet of black men singing spirituals on a sultry night. My mind puzzled over a black woman baking biscuits for her white employer’s family and my grandfather’s racist remarks. I longed to understand what seemed like a different reality. And different it was, because of the legacy of white culture’s investment in slavery.

After I left home my understanding of the other reality that was black America took shape down a rocky road of close friendships, interpersonal violence, even a drowning. I was deeply entangled in a fraught inheritance as victim, and on some level, as perpetrator. I’m far away from those times now but many incidents left deep scars on my psyche. Often it seems there’s no making sense of any of it. That’s the despair talking. That’s how I felt watching TV last night.

Retreating into a pretty world of graceful plants – and the Maidenhair fern certainly fits that bill – is tempting but I couldn’t simply proceed with this post as if nothing else was happening. Between racism, the pandemic and a changing climate, there is much to mourn today. Making sense of it seems impossible but we need to make the effort. And we need to turn away at some point, if only to breathe. Yes, I used that word “breathe” intentionally. George Floyd literally couldn’t breathe and so he died. We all need to breathe some better air. I offer this brief respite in the hope that you will come away from it breathing better, if only metaphorically. In Zen practice I learned the Three Precepts: to cease from evil, to do good, and to do good for others. In another iteration: to not create evil, to practice good and to actualize good for others. I see it as a continuum. We can at least try to place ourselves on it, somewhere, once we catch our breath.

And now to the lovely Maidenhair fern, which you may already know. It’s graceful fronds invite contemplation. They sway in the breeze on long, impossibly thin stalks, they shed rain but love wet places, they please the eye with the regularity of their patterns, like small green ladders in the woods, arrayed in circles.

The Maidenhair fern is sold as a garden plant and grows wild in many places – North America, China, the Andes, New Zealand, Europe – even Bermuda has its own Maidenhair fern. There are around 250 different species of Adiantum, a genus name that means unwetted, for the way water beads up on the leaves.

The species found in my area is called Adiantum aleuticum. Aleutian maidenhair fern ranges from Alaska to Mexico and is also found on the other side of the country, from Newfoundland to Vermont. I don’t remember where or when I saw a Maidenhair fern the first time. Maybe it was in a conservatory that I was first captivated by the graceful, delicate patterns of its leaves. Every time I find one my breath draws in sharply. Oh! A Maidenhair!!

There aren’t many colonies here on Fidalgo Island; we’re too dry for this moisture-lover. The few places I’ve found it growing here are rocky, wet cliffsides in shady locations. Further inland it can be found in rich, moist woods. Once I saw it entwined with Sword fern AND Lady fern – a trio of repeating patterns in bright green.

4. Maidenhair fern in the woods, beside a waterfall and under the roots of a tree precariously perched on a cliff.

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5. Three different native ferns intertwine along a trail in Snohomish County, Washington.

6. Pendant Maidenhair fern fronds on a rocky bank along a rural road in Skagit County, Washington.

7. Maidenhair ferns growing in a cave near the beach at Shelter Cove, in Northern California.

8. A garden specimen unfurls delicate fronds in March at Kruckeberg Garden in Seattle.

9. A cultivated Maidenhair fern frond is nestled in a Hosta leaf at the Center for Urban Horticulture in Seattle.

10. Masses of Maidenhair fern make a lush accent for the trees at Washington Arboretum in Seattle. Look carefully and you can see the difference between this cultivated fern and the native species.

11. Maidenhair ferns grow near a power plant at Newhalem, Washington, deep in the North Cascades.

12. I found this Maidenhair on a wet cliff at Multnomah Falls, along the Columbia River in Oregon.

13. These leaflets look exactly like tiny Gingko tree leaves! That’s what I love about this plant – the endless discoveries you can make when you study its form.

14. The colors have been altered in this photo but the stems often do have a purple cast.

Fern reproduction is a complicated business. You probably know that ferns have spores rather than seeds. On many, but not all ferns, spores are carried on the undersides of the leaves and that’s the case with Maidenhair ferns. Sometime in summer, the margins of fertile leaflets curl under and spores begin to grow. Tiny, dust-like spores are piled in sori (from the Greek for ‘heaps’) also called fruitdots. The sori are covered by a thin membrane which is pushed aside once the spores are ripe. In the case of Maidenhair ferns, the membrane protecting the spores is simply the rolled edge of the leaflet. In some of these photos (e.g. #13 & 16) the rolled margins of leaflets can be seen – that’s where the Maidenhair fern hides it’s precious spores.

When they ripen, the spores will burst out of their cases and get blown around by the wind. Ferns produce prodigious amounts of spores and since there are so many, some are bound to land in just the right place. But spores don’t create ferns directly – first, there’s an intermediate stage, the gametophyte. A little hair anchors it into the soil and it grows, cell by cell, into a very small, heart-shaped body on which the sexual organs form. With a little moisture, male sperm will swim across to the female organs and eggs will be fertilized. An egg then develops a root, a stem, and finally, the first little leaf. Every time I read about fern reproduction I think, why can’t I find one of those little heart-shaped fern gametophytes? They’re just too small. My eyes are distracted by so many other things.

The fine, dark smooth stems of Maidenhair ferns have been used in basketry by North American tribes, and there was some medicinal use as well. In some European countries a sweetened syrup is made with Maidenhair fern leaves. Called Capillaire or Capile in Portugal, it’s been used in cocktails and to treat symptoms of illnesses like sore throats and bronchitis. The medicinal uses of Adiantum in Iranian traditional medicine are discussed in a recent scientific study. Traditional Chinese Medicine uses Adiantum plant species, too. And a Seattle-based school of herbalism and foraging is called Adiantum School of Plant Medicine.

A plant with such a wide distribution has probably had many other uses through the ages. For me, it’s enough to just look at it. This fern never fails to delight, no matter how many times I might see it.