Felicity Fenton

I grew up in a mountain valley of Colorado tucked inside the coniferous, fire prone woods. The altitude, at almost 10,000 feet was too high for many living things. Those that could survive were fireweed, columbine, moss campion, Indian paintbrush, gentian, sagebrush, spruce, and lupine. Others too. Others I knew not by name, but by scent, weave, and bloom.

Later I fled the mountains for NYC where branches became power lines, trash cans stood in for sagebrush, and grounds were paved in sidewalks rather than moss. There were a few grassy tufts under streetlights for dogs to sniff and mark, and tumorous trees struggling to grow inside their concrete perches. I missed the healthy woods of Colorado and escaped whenever I could to Prospect Park or Central Park. Trains would chug me out of the city to unencumbered land. To liven up my tiny apartment, I bought a few cheap houseplants, sub-tropical varieties that all withered behind small, bar-covered windows. I often found myself struggling to find breath.

Some people pack up everything and move long distances for jobs or art or lovers. I left Brooklyn to be closer to the trees. I’d seen pictures of Oregon, read about the elder conifers and verdant moss, and knew they’d be the right balance of wisdom and medicine that I needed. I packed a tiny car full of what was left of me and never looked back.

Years later, on aimless walks around Portland, Oregon, I amble by a number of trees, shrubs, flowers, and ferns. I can name many of these, and think I have an understanding of what they do, their purpose as plants, but it doesn’t mean I know them.

In words, I attempt to tap into this knowing, but ultimately the perspective and language around it on the page is all mine, one simple, biased human observation. There is far more complexity to plants than I’ll ever be able to write about. Not knowing their complexity is the teaching I came here for.