From City Lights to Fern Delights–
There comes a moment when the daily discord starts to feel less like the sweet rhythm of life and more like a predictable monotony. For me, that moment arrived on a Friday afternoon as car horns blared through my windows, strangers shouted at one another in earshot, and the constant rumble of sirens created a relentless backdrop to life. The packed stores with their fluorescent lighting, the bumper-to-bumper traffic stretching endlessly down every street, and the inescapable murmur of too many people existing in too small a space had finally reached its breaking point. This, I thought, cannot be the pinnacle of human existence.
And so, armed with nothing but a dreamer’s vision of country life, oh and of course a Pinterest board full of whimsical flower arrangements, I did what any reasonable person would do: I moved to a ramshackle cottage, sight unseen in a tiny town who had 940 -ish residents, Counting me!
The Great Escape
The realtor’s description had mentioned “natural water features,” which I took to mean perhaps a quaint little pond. What I got instead was a property bisected by a meandering brook that curved and twisted through fern-filled woods like a liquid signature. The water burbled over mossy rocks, creating a soundtrack that no meditation app could ever hope to replicate.
“This is it,” I whispered to a nearby chipmunk, who seemed thoroughly unimpressed by my epiphany. “This is where I’ll grow my tiny empire of ethically sourced flowers.” Perhaps a goat, or some sheep to graze, a roadside flower market stand and herbs galore!
The chipmunk scurried away, presumably to tell all its woodland friends about the crazy gal talking to herself. But the gears were set in motion and when I set out to develop an idea, well it takes on life of its own!
The Fern Obsession Begins
Let me tell you something about living alone in the countryside: you develop quirky hobbies at an alarming fast rate. Mine started innocently enough with a single vintage fern botanical print that I spotted; you know the kind in botanical books. The fern in all its glory, most likely a fiddlehead unfurled all the way with the root bulb and tendrils sprawling.
Two months later, my cottage was adorned with fern prints, and I was drawing those gorgeous beauties with sketches that definitely did not resemble anything found in nature, at first. You see, one needs to really look at all the tiny details to fully grasp the essence of drawing such perfection.
“It’s not an obsession,” I explained… it’s a design aesthetic that I’m loving right now, that’s all.
But then I realized, I was already dreaming up names of my future chickens and, well… This is embarrassing but they were names like, types of ferns:
Maidenhair, Lady, and Boston would surely cluck happily in their coop, blissfully unaware of their botanical namesakes. Okay, it might be a slight issue… I could also tear up over losing my Lady, that finicky…
don’t worry not the chicken,
the potted fern plant.
Hammock Philosophy
What really says country living to you? Could it be the slower life and enjoying simple things, like a hammock? If there’s one universal truth about country living, it’s that you need a hammock. Not because it’s particularly comfortable (spoiler alert: after hour two, your spine will remind you that humans were not meant to fold like tacos), but because it’s mandatory for the rural aesthetic I was cultivating.
I installed mine between two sturdy Maples with a perfect view of the brook. On warm afternoons, I’d sway with the gentle rhythm of the water, conducting imaginary business meetings with the trees that bent in the wind around the knoll I perched on.
Sleeping Porch Serenity
The cottage came with a tiny cabin on lower land, overlooking the babbling brook. A sleeping porch was just the thing. It wrapped around one corner like a parenthesis. I decided on summer nights, I’d drag bedding out there, surrounding myself with lanterns ( thrifted- from my create a boho Haven post too!) that cast golden light across the weathered floorboards. A sunset provided the perfect backdrop, warm pink and orange colors licking upward toward a purple hue sky spangled with stars you never see when light pollution masks the heavens.
The crickets formed an orchestra, their symphony punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl or splash from a nocturnal creature taking a midnight dip in the stream. Sometimes, when the night was especially clear, I’d stay awake until dawn, watching the darkness retreat and wondering why I’d spent so many years surrounded by the constant buzz of humanity instead of the gentle murmur of trees. Because the trees really get me, and I them.
The Art of Fern Unfurling
In my quest to perfect fern decal designs for Posy Pocket (because apparently flower farming isn’t eccentric enough), I spent countless hours studying the gentle unfurling of fern fronds.
Here I go again…Ferns. There’s a term for this, I learned: vernation. The fiddleheads spiral outward in a mathematical precision that would make Fibonacci weep with joy.
I’d sketch them by the stream, my drawing pad balanced precariously on a rock, occasionally having to fish it out of the water when a particularly aggressive breeze came along. “This is just part of the artistic process,” I’d tell myself, wringing out pages of smudged ink. And my iPad is calling me back to the current era.
Blueberry Wine and Austen Dreams
Some nights call for a touch of whimsy that only blueberry wine and period dramas can provide. I’d pour myself a glass of local Blueberry infused wine and settle in to watch the delightfully tongue-in-cheek version of Persuasion with Dakota Johnson.
“Anne Elliot would have made an excellent flower farmer,” I’d declare to no one in particular, convinced that Jane Austen’s heroines would appreciate my entrepreneurial spirit and probably my wine too!
After such evenings, I’d drift to sleep imagining the fairies that surely must inhabit my fern-filled forests. In my half-dreams, they’d tend to moonlit gardens and gossip about the strange human who talked to plants and is sure she was born in the wrong time-frame. “She’s odd,” they’d say, “but she leaves barely a turned leaf, so we shall protect her flowers from frost.”
The Truth About Rural Solitude
People often ask if I get lonely out here, away from the constant drone of conversation, the clatter of dishes in nearby restaurants, the mysterious midnight arguments of neighbors, and the symphony of delivery trucks backing up at dawn. The truth is more complicated than a simple yes or no. There are evenings when the silence feels as tangible as a blanket, when I miss the background hum of collective life and conversations.
But then there are mornings when the mist rises from the water like a slow exhalation, when the first flowers of the season open their faces to the sun, when a deer and her fawn step delicately through the grasses. In those moments, “alone” and “lonely” reveal themselves as entirely different concepts. Besides, it’s hard to feel truly isolated when you’re constantly entertaining yourself. But if I feel the slightest melancholy mood creeping up, there’s always yoga in the forest to realize why I longed for the country feeling in the first place.
And so, my adventure continues, some flowers, some ferns, evenings under the stars. If you need me, I’ll be in the hammock, sketching new decal designs and pretending that I’m in my own Austen drama!
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