The Gardener
I've been thinking a lot lately about seeds.
This time of year is a great mystery to me. Maybe mystery is the wrong word. I understand how seeds grow slowly into seedlings, into tiny tender green shoots, into plants, into something that produces food that feeds my family. I understand all this. What I don't understand, I guess, is how I manage to do this.
I, who kill everything that grows in a pot of any kind.
I planted my seeds this year and have watered them carefully for weeks. There is so much of blind faith in gardening. I've been doubtful, more often than not, that anything could be happening under the surface of the soil. After all, I've failed before. And the seeds went in early. And they were in a new place in the yard. Was there enough sun? Had I watered enough? Was it just barely too cold? Was the rain too hard? Were the seeds productive, or had I managed to find some that wouldn't take?
But I've tended them carefully, watching each morning as the gentle sun fell on the pots. Watering them slowly each evening. Waiting. Anticipating.
The truth is, I've been growing more than seeds this spring. Tiny conversations. Quiet moments digging deep into hearts. Unpacking, sometimes through tears, explosive emotions and feelings and thoughts. Conversations while we walk the dog. Whispered thoughts before sleep claimed little minds. I've been watering. I've been tending. I've been watching the gentle sun as it falls, fearing the rain as it pelts. Wondering if anything sustaining could be growing under the surface.
The mystery, to me, is not how seeds grow, but how I am allowed to grow them. I, who lose my temper. I, who put the to do list too often before the people in front of me. I, who fail to understand the situation or the true need or the heart of the person broken at my feet. I, who don't know, at any level, how to raise a soul. The mystery is how I have any part to play in any of this.
This week the tender shoots emerged. Tiny, fragile sprouts of life. The first signs of the tomato plant that will, in a few weeks, provide food to feed my family, food to sustain us.
From blind faith, from careful attention, from faithful watering and caring and hoping; life. And not just life, but life that will sustain other life. The wild, reckless promise that even I can have a part to play in this, that even I can grow a life that is productive, nourishing, giving. I wouldn't have trusted my hands for any of it. Plants grow every day without gardeners. But this plant grew because I planted it. Because I tended it. Because I loved it into life. This plant grew, strong and healthy, because I had a part to play. Because I was invited in, and I entered into it with my whole heart.
These tiny seeds I see already. The evidence of their growth will be clear in short order. Their fruit is soon coming. But I see tiny shoots in the lives we've planted: tiny, fragile sprouts of life. Glimpses of a heart that is generous and giving. Moments of grace and strength and integrity. Little previews of the plant that is slowly but surely growing under the surface, that will one day nourish others. They might have grown without a gardener, but they are growing here, in this way, with these hearts, because we've planted them. We've tended them. We've loved them into life. They are growing strong and healthy because somehow--for a reason I will never know or understand--we were invited in and we have entered into this growing, this tending, with our whole hearts. The promise is in the bright shoots of green, the tiny sprouts we see already. We, who know nothing of growing plants or souls, are reaping a harvest. It's just now on the horizon, a harvest that will one day nourish others.
What a reckless, extravagant thing gardening is. Faith in seeds and hapless gardeners. And yet, each spring, we grow...
This time of year is a great mystery to me. Maybe mystery is the wrong word. I understand how seeds grow slowly into seedlings, into tiny tender green shoots, into plants, into something that produces food that feeds my family. I understand all this. What I don't understand, I guess, is how I manage to do this.
I, who kill everything that grows in a pot of any kind.
I planted my seeds this year and have watered them carefully for weeks. There is so much of blind faith in gardening. I've been doubtful, more often than not, that anything could be happening under the surface of the soil. After all, I've failed before. And the seeds went in early. And they were in a new place in the yard. Was there enough sun? Had I watered enough? Was it just barely too cold? Was the rain too hard? Were the seeds productive, or had I managed to find some that wouldn't take?
But I've tended them carefully, watching each morning as the gentle sun fell on the pots. Watering them slowly each evening. Waiting. Anticipating.
The truth is, I've been growing more than seeds this spring. Tiny conversations. Quiet moments digging deep into hearts. Unpacking, sometimes through tears, explosive emotions and feelings and thoughts. Conversations while we walk the dog. Whispered thoughts before sleep claimed little minds. I've been watering. I've been tending. I've been watching the gentle sun as it falls, fearing the rain as it pelts. Wondering if anything sustaining could be growing under the surface.
The mystery, to me, is not how seeds grow, but how I am allowed to grow them. I, who lose my temper. I, who put the to do list too often before the people in front of me. I, who fail to understand the situation or the true need or the heart of the person broken at my feet. I, who don't know, at any level, how to raise a soul. The mystery is how I have any part to play in any of this.
This week the tender shoots emerged. Tiny, fragile sprouts of life. The first signs of the tomato plant that will, in a few weeks, provide food to feed my family, food to sustain us.
From blind faith, from careful attention, from faithful watering and caring and hoping; life. And not just life, but life that will sustain other life. The wild, reckless promise that even I can have a part to play in this, that even I can grow a life that is productive, nourishing, giving. I wouldn't have trusted my hands for any of it. Plants grow every day without gardeners. But this plant grew because I planted it. Because I tended it. Because I loved it into life. This plant grew, strong and healthy, because I had a part to play. Because I was invited in, and I entered into it with my whole heart.
These tiny seeds I see already. The evidence of their growth will be clear in short order. Their fruit is soon coming. But I see tiny shoots in the lives we've planted: tiny, fragile sprouts of life. Glimpses of a heart that is generous and giving. Moments of grace and strength and integrity. Little previews of the plant that is slowly but surely growing under the surface, that will one day nourish others. They might have grown without a gardener, but they are growing here, in this way, with these hearts, because we've planted them. We've tended them. We've loved them into life. They are growing strong and healthy because somehow--for a reason I will never know or understand--we were invited in and we have entered into this growing, this tending, with our whole hearts. The promise is in the bright shoots of green, the tiny sprouts we see already. We, who know nothing of growing plants or souls, are reaping a harvest. It's just now on the horizon, a harvest that will one day nourish others.
What a reckless, extravagant thing gardening is. Faith in seeds and hapless gardeners. And yet, each spring, we grow...
