It is a new, fresh day and I am percolating with ideas. Shall I write? I find that the space needed to unfold all the characters of my novel competes with the time I have with the boys. It may be that in the solitude and sorrow of their absences, I planted a tiny seed in a anemic hope to have some thing to fill the hollow ache left in their wake. I had carried this seed for decades. It is my most private secret, this idea that I could write. And there are likely some in my constellation who will say, “She never, ever said she ever wanted to write; I would know!”
It is in that environment, that a tiny seed, whose potential is uncertain, gets carefully place inside a minute envelope and tucked away. Why risk it? Like an heirloom seed, it requires careful attention and the right conditions to even germinate, much less bare fruit. Then one day, when you pack up your life and migrate, that long hidden envelope flutters to the ground. In the space of my new existence, the tiny seed quietly asked, “Is it now time to plant me?”
What good does the dream of what the seed might become serve? How does imagining its leaves or flowers truly help? When will the fear of losing the seed overcome the desire to see it sprout? And what about all the other “what ifs“? What if I plant it in the wrong kind of soil? What if I over water or there is a drought? What if it fails? What if I fail? I laid the tiny envelope down; I left it in plain sight for a long time, a reminder of what might become one day. I would touch it and daydream. And in the daydreaming, I germinated that seed and saw it bloom. I saw it thrive. I thought about propagation. It became a robust perennial, rooted and hearty. My fear of losing the seed had evaporated. I now was certain that I could safely plant the seed and reap a harvest, albeit tiny and new. The first year of harvest is always an investment, a knowledge that much must be plowed back into the next year. Any gardener knows, that their work is in the off season, the time of the year when flowers and plants are not prolific. You invest in dividing and replanting, deadheading and mulching. And then you wait for the supernatural, the magic, the divine to reward everyone with the tender shoots, the new growth, the anticipation of bloom and the seduction of the sweet aroma of the open blossom or the succulent ripeness of the final fruit.
Somewhere in the space of my new existence, I shifted from fear of losing the dream to a knowledge the dream was coming. It was all planted. Now, it is the waiting. I know that the divine is at work. I have done my parts. Are they perfect? Not likely. The soil will be too moist or too acidic. The midday sun may be too harsh. Short of a catastrophic event or a plague on my tiny garden here in my remote and not-so-important-place, I will see my tiny seed born. All of its hidden DNA expressing itself and converting the Lord’s blueprint into a living creation. I may be surprised that the tiny seed I thought a fragile, heirloom vegetable is really a fruiting tree or a colossal ficus. It is with faith that I finally plant the seed, just letting the seed be what it was intended, knowing that within its core is all that it needs to be exactly as it was meant.