Even though I have spent my whole life in the South, it was only couple of years ago that I first heard of the resurrection fern. I’m certain that I saw them growing on live oaks when I lived in Charleston, and I appreciated the abundant flowing fronds nestled on the branches of the trees. But I didn’t know their name or their hidden super-power to seemingly die then come back to life.
Soon after I purchased my new home, I noticed two small green ferns growing on the base of two of my Japanese magnolias. They were sweet and delicate, but I didn’t realize exactly what they were. Some days later, they were dead. “Oh, well,” I thought. “I’m glad I noticed them before they died.” Then I promptly forgot about them.
One day after a rain, the ferns were back. I remember thinking that this was odd, and decided to keep an eye on them, still not knowing what they were. Sure enough, when we didn’t have rain for a few days, they turned brown and shriveled, then returned to their verdant selves after a rain. I started noticing them on old trees in my neighborhood and on boulders while on hikes in the forest. And sure enough, they cycled the same as mine did with drought and reviving rain.
It wasn’t until my friend, Sonja, a professional photographer, wrote a short piece about a photograph that she had taken when I learned the name of this plant. Her project involved shooting photos of the trees that had been used as lynching trees in Alabama. When she searched for a particular tree in Harpersville, AL, she learned that it had died and fallen, but had not yet been removed. When she found the fallen tree, she took photos of the resurrection ferns that were donning it.
What a powerful contrast—resurrection amidst a scene of unspeakable pain and brutality.
The resurrection fern is a true fern, but it is an epiphyte, that is, a plant that derives all of its nutrients from the air. It has roots, but they function not to pull nutrients from the soil, but only to anchor the plant to its host. It’s neither parasitic nor mutualistic.
This fern doesn’t actually die, rather, it curls inward, exposing its underside, in periods of drought. It can lose up to 95% of its water content, a super-power when one considers that most plants can only lose 10% of their water before they succumb. It is estimated that the resurrection fern can live up to 100 years in this desiccated state.
But when it rains, a system of pores on the undersurface, which is now the exposed surface, collects the water and then channels it out to the rest of the plant, unfurling the fronds and returning it to its lushness. A short time-lapse video is here.
What if we, in times of spiritual drought, turned inwards and exposed our vulnerability? Then, when the reviving waters returned, we could open ourselves up and drink it in. Those reviving waters may come in many forms—an understanding friend, a timely book, or a revelation while in prayer or meditation.
I know that I have had times when I felt shriveled and dead inside, all my resources having run dry. The burdens of providing care can do that to us, just as the burdens of many different life circumstances can. By curling in on ourselves, we may be protecting our tender places, but the shell that we erect can’t let in the spiritual nourishment that we need. Sometimes, it is only by making our wounds visible can we allow ourselves to be resurrected.