Uncurling

Trail: Storm King Ranger Station to Barnes Creek

There were ferns everywhere along the path — curled, stretching, hidden in shadows, reaching for light. I kept stopping to look at them. Not because they were rare, but because they felt familiar.

Each one in a different stage of becoming. Quiet, unnoticed, and still somehow full of purpose.

As the light softened and the evening settled in, it felt like the forest was exhaling. The air was cool, the trail hushed except for birdsong, my fellow hikers, and the sound of the creek nearby. That stillness asked something of me — to slow down, to stop filling every space with noise or movement.

Lately, I’ve been carrying the feeling that I’m supposed to be “more.” More present, more certain, more put-together. But those ferns reminded me that growth doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it happens in ways no one sees.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s enough.

Uncurling

by Sara Parks

Beneath the fir where shadows play,
a fern begins to end the day.
It doesn’t bloom with bold display,
but slowly turns the dark away.

No spotlight calls, no need to race,
it grows in dusk’s familiar place.
Each spiral held in calm delay,
unfolding in its own soft way.

Its rhythm steady, never planned,
rooted deep in shadowed land—
Becoming more with each small bend,
each soft turn a means, not end.

There’s something comforting in knowing that the forest doesn’t ask for urgency. The ferns will keep unfurling, whether anyone is watching or not. And maybe that’s the reminder I needed — that becoming doesn’t always come with a finish line. Sometimes it’s just about showing up, quietly, and continuing to open.

Have you had a moment like that on the trail — when something small made you pause and breathe a little deeper? I’d love to hear what stays with you after the walk.