The Miracle of seeds
This week has been planting time.
I am ever in awe that I can hold in my hand dozens of seeds, each holding the miracle of life, and the promise of more seeds.
I spent a day recently with my 9 year old granddaughter and delighted in planting carrots and beets, and settling tomatoes seedlings into their new places in the ground. I showed her the seeds I had saved from last year’s cucumbers and we planted some for her and her brothers.
Yesterday I opened a package of wildflower seeds, tiny, many varieties, a promise of colour and hope.
Gardening is not without its perils. I’ve been paying more attention to the soil, adding nutrients, even grinding some egg shells yesterday to provide calcium for my tomato babies. With a prayer and some talking to, I left them for the night, hoping they would be ok.
(And they were)
I’m reading a great book, a novel based on true stories, called “The Seed Keeper” by Diane Wilson.
There is sadness in the book, for it tells indigenous history that we often don’t want to think about. But we need to acknowledge it. Our indigenous neighbours, their ancestors knew how to take care of the earth, to plant, to save seeds. Many were were forced from their land, uprooted, causing generational trauma and grief. These stories are being told, and we learn, with sadness, a history we were never taught.
And with humility we seek to make changes and get back to caring for the earth we have been entrusted with, learning from history, honouring a simpler way of life.
Last year I planted trio of seeds together, an indigenous method of a cornstalk, a bean plant, and squash. Together they grow, stalk and vines, supporting one another. Today I’ll plant my corn, and my beans. I’ll set out my baby cucumbers with them and hope for the best.
Yes, some will be food for the birds, but I should be willing to share.
So with a prayer, and hope, I plant.
I dream, and am thankful for miracles of seeds.