The Fellowship of Ferns

In Alaska, I stayed in a yurt village nestled in the middle of a lush, vibrant forest. One of our writing prompts was simple: take a walk and look for a metaphor in nature.

The forest floor was covered in the softest moss. After wandering for a while, I decided I needed to lie down and simply look up. The canopy stretched overhead, filtering the light in a way that made everything feel quieter. It's rare to have moments of that kind of stillness, and I wanted to take it all in.

I felt the strain in my cheeks before I even realized I was smiling.

When I finally sat up and looked around, searching for one thing to write about, a cluster of fiddleheads came into view. It was almost as if they were raising their hands to be chosen.

The metaphor wrote itself.

I saw a young fern frond still curled into a fiddlehead. It will begin to unfurl over time. The fern knows protection is part of thriving. It moves at its own pace, knowing intrinsically that to reveal its fullness before it’s ready would hinder its ability to flourish.

I caught this fern in the middle of becoming itself.

And it’s somehow already perfect. The fern doesn’t ask permission to take up more space. When it’s ready, it simply unfolds. It joins the fellowship of ferns, each in its various stages, not looking for more than it needs and never considering making itself less.

The fern never mistakes stillness for stagnation. What looks complete from the outside is, on the inside, preparing for an expansion that’s already written into its nature. Unfurling doesn’t make it a fern. It already is one. It simply reveals what has always been true.

I realize that, like this fern, I’m not behind. I’m not unfinished. I’m not waiting for life to begin.

I’m in the middle of becoming.