This was taken from the window in hubby's room. The little fern-weed plant has been there for some months, wedged at a corner of the ubiquitous, hideous gray piece of steel shield (designed by the oh-so-practical architects of HDB to provide shade from the hot afternoon sun), but we never noticed how and when it first began to take root. As the pictures show, the apartment faces a large tract of empty land, with the nearest buildings a couple of kilometres away, distant by Singapore's standards. The wind is often gusty and strong and it's a wonder how the fern-weed managed to hold on for so long, and grow too. The roots, dangling in the air, are more than a metre in length, and seem to be extending each time I see it. A lovely snapshot of how life can be so resilient when faced with the odds, in the fern-weed's case, a lack of a familiar life support system - no soil=no nutrients. I guess it has tried to make do with moisture from the air and energy from the sun, and has managed to come so far. But not for long, before the practicalities of society impose its will on it: hubby said the painters commissioned by HDB will be here in a year or so, as the apartment block is scheduled to be spruced up, which will probably spell the end of the fern-weed. As I look at it again, the swaying roots seem to tug gently at my heart. When the time comes for it to go, should I relocate it to a pot and domesticate it? How will it lend itself to life confined in a small space after all this time out in the open, engaging in battle after battle with the natural and often harsh elements, and yet coming away victorious time and again?
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