Ferns are the quietest plants in the garden

“No white nor red was ever seen so am’rous as this lovely green.” That’s a line from The Garden, a poem by 17thcentury poet Andrew Marvell. Then he went on to write “annihilating all that’s made to a green thought in a green shade.”

It can be so relaxing to gaze upon simple shades of green. There are places in my garden where, if I turn my back on all the bursts of colour that appear almost daily in summer, I can look upon a section that isn’t demanding my attention.

For instance, when I look upon a rose bush that has suddenly erupted in bright red blooms, my response is typically a silent wow. Catch a waft of heavy fragrance and the senses spike. Not so with the quiet plants in the garden, and the quietest are the ferns. Other than one old nameless clump in full sun, they’re all growing in shadier spots, in the background. It would be wrong to call them filler plants, even if that’s a role they accomplish so well.

According to all the studies on the health benefits of gardening, when I slow down (or maybe the ferns are causing me to slow down) and look closely, I might briefly feel a subtle change, a reduction of stress, except I’m rarely stressed in the garden. Call it a small sample of forest bathing, or Shinrinyoku, which was developed in Japan in the 1980s where it’s become an integral part of preventive health care in Japanese medicine.

So, plant enough ferns in your garden and you don’t have to go to the forest. My ferns are not showy, even when they’re waving their friendly fronds, although those fascinating fiddleheads that appear in spring are a delight, especially when eaten (warning: only certain species are safe to eat).

Ferns have no need for pretty, seedproducing flowers. They reproduce by way of spores formed on the underside of leaves where they’re occasionally mistaken for bugs.

Some species may be invasive, but the ones I have in my garden haven’t budged from where I planted them, except for the sensitive fern (Onoclea sensibilis). It’s a native fern, called sensitive because it’s one of the first plants to react to frost, although I can’t say I’ve ever noticed.

There’s a patch behind the bench and by midsummer, it creeps through and takes a seat. This one does tend to spread a little, but it’s easy enough to pull out if it overreaches.

I must have at least half a dozen other fern species scattered around the garden — a small sample when there are more than 10,000 worldwide and many cultivars. With the barnboard fence as a backdrop, making a perfect picture, I have Athyrium ‘Lady in Red’ with its lovely green fronds on vibrant, burgundy stems.

Growing in the side yard is my one fern that isn’t a restful green and I don’t mind if it stands out a little. It’s a Japanese

painted fern (Athyrium niponicum) and the delicate fronds do appear to be painted, almost silver with only a hint of green.

Nearby is Athyrium filix-femina, a lady fern, common throughout North America, this one is a cultivar called ‘Victoria’. The name refers to the Victorian period when ferns were all the rage. It has feathery fronds that are as green as ever with leaflets forming an unusual criss-cross pattern.

It’s been said that as a garden (and the gardener) ages, it tends to soften, to be more balanced. I’m enjoying these restful ferns and perhaps I’ll add more shades of green to the garden. I might sit on the bench more often, alone with my ferns to enjoy, as Marvell says in his poem, “this delicious solitude.”

Nah, I’m not about to rid my garden of colourful flowers. Where’s that seed catalogue?

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