Grow little fern, grow.

I went and stood in a forest.

It's quite the most perfect thing to do on the way home, at the end of a busy week full of twists and turns, ups and downs, good stuff and not so good stuff. And it seemed the most sane, the most natural and ordinary thing to do.

Just forty metres off the road you are lost, deep in another world. You are connected to this world, but you know you are a stranger to it. All was still, but not silent. Birds moved and sang close by without being seen. Trees creaked as they rubbed up against each other. For once, there was no wind through the tops. Just stillness. There is a luxuriant, rich earthy smell, mixed in with pine here.

So many of these magnificent tress have been blown down or lie with roots unhinged, hanging on to others, wedged into the crooks of branches as if the forest was unwilling to let another one of their own fall to earth.

On the way out, midst the combs of tall thin trees, and the thick, deep creased trunks of the ancient ones, one small fern caught a shaft of light. It was so very fragile yet full of life. There was so much life in this place, despite the uprooting, yet this seemed the most vibrant of all. One of those sights that causes an involuntary smile and suggests that you have a new friend. You wish it well. Grow little fern.