I bought seeds for my garden last week—Roma tomatoes and Siberian kale, thyme, parsley and carrots. Just looking at the colourful packages is therapy. Part of what makes this time of year so difficult, I think, is the lack of colour.
But have you noticed the growing sunlight? A little bit in the morning and in the late afternoons. To the winter soul, it’s the sunlight of a sliced cucumber drizzled with honey.
While we wait for our world to unfreeze, for the virus to retreat, for our friends to unmask, for things to check into their normal rhythm, it’s wise I think to plant a few seeds.
Planting a seed is doing something for ourselves now and later. It might be a real seed or a figurative one. Pressing a tiny seed into earth—what is more human? More hopeful? It is both tactile and insanely abstract. It speaks to our highest self, one that’s generous to our future self.
It’s hard to make plans for the future at this moment in history, with COVID vaccine news playing roulette with any delicate ball of an idea we may have.
So here’s my thought: don’t make plans, plant seeds: call a long-lost friend and lay the groundwork for a visit, clean up the spare room, rid yourself of clutter.
Get your feet into the starting blocks.
Because when the gates do open, you’ll be off running.