The Miracle of Seeds
It is no secret that I find seeds miraculous. I have planted seeds every year since I moved out of an apartment and into a house with a yard in 1986. I planted seeds with my mother as a child, but didn’t really get how magical the process was until I was an adult.
Every year, I watch with the same wonder. The chemical reaction of water, soil and seed and the je ne sais quoi of life repeating itself. Over and over again.
Planting a garden is surrendering to hope. It is acknowledging that life is ever changing, but also dependable. Time and again, we trust in the seed, the soil, the water whether from the heavens or a hose.
Many things can interrupt the magic, and the sorrow I feel when a plant withers and dies is akin to the despair of unrequited love. You do what you can but if the seed doesn’t grow, it wasn’t meant to be.
Acceptance is painful, and often postponed until the last hint of green turns brown.
When that happens, I heave a deep sigh, and try again, whether with a new seed now or another attempt next season.
Right now, though, my seeds are flourishing. Aren’t they beautiful in both their simplicity and their potential?
–Elizabeth J. Winters Waite
Elizabeth J. Winters Waite owned and managed an all girl accounting firm for 19 years. She specialized in working Moms and nonprofit organizations. She writes and gardens from her Cincinnati home.
Seedling images: Elizabeth J. Winters Waite
Side bar image: Pixabay/Edar.
