Seeds, Roots & Sprouts
When we plant a seed, at first all we can see is the dirt. We know the seed is there, because we planted it. But no one else knows for sure that a seed is there. Someone else only sees the dirt.
They may believe us when we point to the terracotta pot of soil and tell them that we’re growing something. That right now just below the surface, a tiny seed is sprouting roots all around itself. But unless someone was there when we planted it, they really don’t know for sure if we’re telling the truth.
When you plant a seed, you bury it at least a couple inches below the surface. You move dirt to the side, drop your seeds in, and cover them back up with the misplaced earth. You gently level the dirt, erasing all the evidence of your efforts from above the ground. Then you water it and wait, tending to something not even you can see anymore.
Once planted, the seed becomes something that you just know is there. So you do your best to nurture its growth. Giving it proper amounts of water and sunlight, and imagining what that little seed is becoming just out of sight. When your curiosity gets the better of you, you bring your face close to the soil, looking for the smallest hints of green sprouting through the surface. You wonder how far a not visible network of roots have spread.
You know that if you grow too impatient and disturb the earth around the seed to check on its progress, you might ruin its fragile growth. So you don’t. You fight the impulse and you wait. Flipping between worry and confidence, hoping that you’ve done enough to help the little seed begin to grow.
It usually doesn’t take too long for those first green signs of life. When you see them, you let out a small sigh of relief. One you might not have even known you were holding in. Because even if you were mostly sure you were doing things right, it isn’t until you see green sprouts that you can let go of your doubts. Sprouts are the only sign we get that something is growing.
I think most of the time, we’re the gardener. Most of the time we’re nurturing something just out of sight. And hoping that it’s growing into that thing we’re dreaming about. Like an athlete putting in the training hours, carefully tracking their nutrition and sleep. Hoping that when the competition finally comes, they’ll be in top form.
Sometimes we’re the outside observer. The person who has to trust from the sidelines that the gardener knows what they are doing. I imagine it’s a bit how parents feel when they leave their kids for a few hours in the hands of teachers or coaches. Or when their kids grow up enough to leave home, and effectively take over as their own gardener full time.
But sometimes, we get to be the seed. Sometimes we get to be the ones growing just out of sight. Building an intricate network of roots that no one else can see. Sometimes we get to be this tiny speck of hope that some other gardener dropped into the earth. Then they carefully covered us up, giving us a little water and sunlight so that we could quietly create something.
I wonder if a seed buried in a terracotta pot ever feels pressure to grow into a plant, or if a seed is just confident that it can. But as a human seed, I think we waffle like the gardener. Wavering between being confident that we’ll build a strong enough root system, and worrying about whether we’re becoming the right sort of plant. Wondering if we’ll see a smile on the gardener’s face when we start to peak through the earth with our first green sprouts.
When we’re the seed, and we’re first exploring what’s around us in our little pot, I don’t think it’s our job to worry too much about the gardener. At that point, we already know that they found us in a packet labeled Wildflowers. The gardener might have an idea of what they want to see grow, but they don’t know exactly. We might disappoint them when we finally start to grow above the earth. But we also might become something better than they ever imagined.
