The Sweet Easiness of Ferns Unfolding
I’ve been watching the ferns grow. When they first burst up from the earth, they look like tiny fern embryos, or little living springs of some kind, all curled up in tight little spirals atop their fuzzy stems. But day after day, they relax more and more into the gentle spring air, their stems straightening as they grow, their leaves opening to the light. Soon they’re great, proud fans of green, marching up the hill.
I marveled today at the sweet easiness of their unfolding, the effortlessness of their growth. They just surrender to the life force and keep reaching for the light.
You have to look hard to find one that’s bent out of shape. It’s not that they don’t have their irritations or causes for concern. Bugs crawl up their spines and munch on their leaves, after all. Pine cones bomb them from above. And at any moment, a deer could run from the woods and crush them beneath its mighty hooves.
It’s just that they don’t spend their beautiful moments anticipating what troubles could befall them. And so they have no defensive anger, no fear. They have better things to do. They can dance with the wind, for instance. (That’s actually one of their favorite pastimes.) Or listen to the singing of tree leaves and birds, or visit with the happy yellow flowers that pop up in their midst.
Their attention just stays focused on the ever-changing scene before them. It proves their faith, supplies their needs, and brings them unending delight. And so with a sweet easiness, they surrender to its fullness. And the life force, finding no resistance, flows through them and they prosper and grow.
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