I know it’s early in the season, but there’s something in me that needs to plant seeds. Seeds mean hope — hope for beauty, hope for nourishment, hope for miracles.
During the winter, I ordered dozens of packages of seeds — flowers I’ve never seen before, Monkey Flowers, Balloon Flowers, also Chinese Lanterns, exotic lilies….– and tomatoes and herbs and yellow cauliflower and…
Three days ago, I stayed up late and mixed the seed-starter soil. Over the past two days I spent my mother’s nap times planting the seeds in little peat pots. Tonight, they are all warm and moist in the grow-lit confines of a portable greenhouse that I have wedged in a space near my bathroom — the only space available.
I harvested hundreds of marigold seeds and dozens of decorative hot pepper seeds from last year’s plants. When it’s warmer, I wiil plant them in pots that can sit indoors under the windows until outdoor planting time.
Today, I noticed that the squirrels had again chewed off the buds from the newly sprouted daffodils. I dumped a whole bottle of cayenne pepper over the ones that had survived. Supposedly squirrels don’t like hot peppers. Mixing them in the bird food didn’t stop them from getting into the feeders, however.
I did buy packs of coyote urine to keep the deer away. I put one by the budding flowers, but somehow I don’t think squirrels are afraid of coyotes.
My tiny lilac bushes that I planted last year have buds. Little miracles.
Every time I look at my grandson, I am struck by that miracle. That little seed that is now growing like a weed.
Oh, I don’t believe in miracles in the religious sense. Nature is the miracle.
Of course, now there’s the nun who says that the previous Pope should be canonized a saint because praying to him cured her of Parkinson’s disease. Her story is compelling. Nature works in mysterious ways.
Seeds. Seeds of thought. Seeds of hope. Seeds of belief.
So much depends upon seeds.