they seem ready to burst. seeds perched on the starting line, waiting for the right wind to pick them up and scatter them. they have gathered energy – all along – soaking in the winter sun, dried by cold breezes, clinging to the safety of their stalky stem. and now – it’s time soon – to release – to go forth – to spread their fluffy seeds. and, in their own way, they will be heard.
this is not unlike many initiatives. times where people work tirelessly, gather information, research and sort in the fallow times, soak in rare moments of rest, waiting for the time to burst. and then, the marketing campaign hits the market, the album is released, the gallery opens its doors, the ballet has an opening, the law is introduced for passage and enactment, the hearing starts.
so many seeds gathered in one giant fluffball, waiting. though uncertain about their future – uncertain about whether they have stoked enough energy, soaked up enough sun, gathered enough wind in their seed-wings – uncertain about success or failure – they wait. ready to burst.
“hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. you wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.” (anne lamott)
and all the wishes in the whole wide world gather together. and they wait in the queen anne’s lace, sipping fine champagne and eating bonbons. they wait for their moments, individually and together. every-every queen anne’s lace pod. they wait for the tipping point.
and one day – in the middle of saunas and steambaths, luxurious manis and pedis, chamber orchestras playing taylor swift, candles and lavender pillows, crystal glassware topped off with port – the sun and the moon having risen and fallen many, many times – the wishes release into the world on new morning rays and seeds go every-everywhere.
and they drift and soar and look down from the jetstream at all the people.
poised and ready. tiny seedpods waiting. their release will come with the wind and the rain and, surely, this spring is bringing that. and they will float and fall to the ground and be sent swirling and land in the meadow and the pond, on the river and on decaying nurselogs nearby in the forest. some will take root and others will not, for their form has changed too much in the rain and wind for their function to remain the same. but there are many, so the tree’s explosion of blossoms have guaranteed its legacy.
in every moment of communicating with others we are tiny seedpods. poised and ready to release with the wind. what will we scatter?
our words are not without volition; we have the choice of what to say, the choice of how to say it. the moments of measuring a response, of pondering a question…these are moments of great import.
“all summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.” (mary oliver- what i have learned so far)
how many times we wish we could take back a comment, retract a judgement, shrink back from a story told. how many times we wish an other would-not-have-said-that, would apologize, would consider all the implications of something said in spew, or even in -what they feel is- jest. we know a tiny slowing-down, a quick brain-heart-lips check-in, a fact-check, a compassionate re-wording, would all change the minute our words – or theirs – hit the air, with the wind ready to sail them on and on.
tiny seeds sown on the breezes of everyday life. seeds that take root and grow.
“we plow the fields and scatter the good seed on the land…”(stephen schwartz/john michael tebelak – all good gifts)
good seed.
“i’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” (maya angelou)
though we are not ‘good’ at many plants, it seems, we are ‘good’ at ornamental grasses. maybe it’s the soil, maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s location, but grasses have given us a sense of garden-accomplishment that nothing else (shy of mayyyybe the cherry tomatoes and basil and lavender this year) has bestowed upon us.
we won’t cut them down. no pruning. they will stay through the winter, magnificent plumes golden against the drear, against the snow, reminding us of good fluff of the day.
i imagine tiny animals sheltering in their masses, dense bush allowing warmth and security and invisibleness. maybe tiny chipmunks, with pantries of birdseed they have stolen from the finches and sparrows, waylaid from intrepid robins and scarlet cardinals. we’ll just keep filling the birdfeeder. judging by the birds partying in our backyard yesterday, i think we may try and find another birdfeeder to hang as well. i have turned into my parents.
dogdog comes inside each day now, laden with seed pods. if wishes were granted on seedheads, we would have so many magical dreams coming true. he seems to not mind these tiny hitchhikers tucked into his very-furry fur. we pick them off, one by one.
and now i think, who’s gonna stop us from wishing on each one? these grasses grace us in more than one way. let the magic commence.
reverse threading 