Every planting season starts with pots, soil and seeds scattered on my living room floor like stars strewn across the night sky. A cosmic chaos of new beginnings, an assortment of legume galaxies, constellations of leafy greens, flowery nebulas and herb clusters. Speckled beans flexing their curvy backs. Translucent gems of corn glistening in the afternoon light. Grooved nasturtium seeds curled up like seashells washed up on a beach. Confetti of papery flakes that are going to become tomatoes and peppers dotted with striped pointy cases containing future sunflowers. Little coriander orbs rolling around, bouncing off wrinkled peas and oval pumpkin seeds. Straight arrows of marigolds aimed at tiny hooks that will blossom into calendulas, with microscopic mint and poppy seeds sprinkled around like stardust.
I hold these specks in my hand, weightless, some barely visible, each one containing a world of its own. Under their shells, soft and hard, rough and smooth, matte and glossy, are endless lines of code, specific instructions on the exact placement of leaves and petals, the precise timing of flowering and fruiting. The secret language of the universe distilled over billions of Earth’s rotations around the Sun. All of cosmic energy condensed into casings the size of a freckle on my arm, soon to explode into a tangled mass of roots, leaves and flowers that will take over my balcony and turn this concrete ledge in the middle of Toronto into a wellspring of life.
These specks that can so easily be blown away by a slightest puff of wind are vaults of memories. Memories of the morning sun hitting their mother plants at just the right angle, waking them up, urging to stretch taller. Of afternoon storms bringing much needed, thirst-quenching freshness. Memories of June beetles buzzing at dusk and bees’ furry bodies nestles amidst petals. Of stems and vines bowing under the weight of ripening fruit. Memories of summers past and those yet to come. Memories that will be turned into tomatoes, peppers, string beans, pea pods, corn ears, crunchy carrots, zesty arugula, yellow-eyed daisies and pom-pom marigolds, fragrant lavender and refreshing mint. That will then turn into more seeds, dozens, hundreds of them. These specks that can so easily roll away and get stuck in a crack between floor boards are vectors of hope constantly oriented toward eternity.
Every spring, the question comes up of buying seedlings at a garden centre or growing veggies and herbs from seed. The first option is definitely easier but I always, inevitably opt for the latter. Because growing a plant from seed not only satisfies my hankering for a fresh tomato but also feeds a desire for awe and wonder. Every year, I drop those specks into warm moist soil and wait for them to do their magic. A couple of days later, tiny green shoots poke their heads through clumps of earth – one or two leaves, sometimes bound together, as if in a prayer, by now empty seed casings, soon to be discarded completely as these crumpled shoots unfurl slowly, stretch toward light, grow taller every day. As I watch blossoms turn into fruit on my fifth floor balcony, I never cease to be fascinated by the fact that all of this – leaves, flowers, fruit – were inside those tiny specks all along. If that is not a miracle, I don’t know what is.
