There are few things I love more than watching ferns unfurl. It's as if tiny little hands are unclenching, opening, reaching. The ferns on my woody ramble have all been waking up. Well, it's about time, I want to say. We are in June, after all. Still, it's another lesson in patience. (It's an on going lesson for me)
I used to hate it when my Granna would say, "All in good time." What did that mean? I was an eager child who would plant seeds and then watch the earth for hours, waiting. Waiting. Still waiting. And then some more waiting. And ever yet more waiting. I drove my poor family mad, I'm sure. And then I would explode at the first sight of a sprout, joyous, leaping. (It's a miracle they ever let me in the garden)
Now as I watch the ferns, I know they will open in the right amount of time. Just like any of us. We are all unfurling, some more quickly than others, but all, decidedly at our own pace. In our own good time. Whatever that means.
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