Seeds of Change

Our postboxes stand ingloriously in a rusty row at the edge of our looping street.  They are not an auspicious introduction to our little neighborhood, and when we first looked at the little red house we quickly made plans to sand and paint our mailbox. . .but now, lulled into everyday life and a realization that it rains every other day, our ambitions have waned.  The postbox has a door, at least--an improvement on the poor box three or four down that resembles missing tooth.  At least ours is functional.

I love checking the mail every day.  It is one of my favorite rituals--the crank of the little door, the swiffy sound as I pull out the little stack of envelopes and magazines.  There's nothing sadder than an empty mailbox, nothing more wonderful sometimes than an envelope inscribed with the handwriting peculiar to just one person on God's green earth.  Today there was only one measly catalog, but a good one, all in all, and one I would have once been more excited about back in the days of Wazoo's big garden.

Seeds of Change.  Pages and pages of beautiful seeds, heirloom tomatoes, a rainbow of carrots, herbs and the people who grow them--happy sturdy young people tanned by the New Mexican sun.

Truth be told, any excitement about gardening was quenched last February when Martin slit the envelope bearing those two cold sentences that told us we'd be moving on.  To me, gardens symbolize permanence--a knowledge that you will be around for passing seasons, that you'll be there while the seed germinates, spreads roots and at last bears flowers and fruit.  I couldn't even bring myself to buy spring bulbs.  I want to know that we'll be here for a few years to appreciate the investment.

Adrift--that's the word that keeps, well, drifting into my mind.  I feel a bit adrift.   Part of me wants to keep roots shallow, just in case.  It hurts less to rip a few wispy roots if you have to transplant.  One spring years ago, I dug at the roots of an old quince bush for hours.  It looked like an easy bush to claim for our own--the neighbor wanted to plant a dogwood in its place and he'd generously offered it to us . . .all we had to do was dig it up.  Easy!  I started off with hope in my heart and a flat shovel in my hands.  Soon the sweat was pouring down my face and the yard looked like a mine field. 

I enlisted Martin and we worked at it for a few more hours, retired for the evening, and came back the next day.  Finally we had to cut the tap root and heave ho.  After we hauled it across the road, it took a good year to bear a few pale orange blossoms, and even when we left, five years later, it still had a stricken look.

In past years I've set down roots, even if I knew we were somewhere just for a year.  With young energy I gathered the world around me wherever I was.  But--let me see--that eight years ago.  Transition can tire you out a bit.

It's not that we haven't become involved in the community or enjoyed cultivating relationships.  It's just that the deep well of energy that pushed us here in a rush sometimes feels a bit dry--well, not dry, but murky.  I try to think clearly about the future, and the future is one big fog.  I'm looking forward to floating out of the cloud into a clear blue sky.

Thanks to Ken Cockroft for the photo

Seeds of change.  After a brisk walk through a couple neighborhoods and the park, my mind still bungled and circular and out of focus, I reached into the mailbox and pulled out that catalog.  I'm not particularly interested in ordering seeds this year, though I'm sure we will.  I'm interested in those two words--(which I've purposely taken out of the context of organic seeds changing the environment)--Seeds of Change.  Seeds makes me think of permanence, of setting down roots.  But then we have that unlikely word coupling: change.  It's what I needed to see in my mailbox. 

This year is full of the paradox.  In the darkness of our uncertainty, seeds are gently being planted.  Our soil feels weary but I know it is rich in nutrients and loamy beyond our own doing--rich with the values and vocation and imagination and love that makes us remember who we are.  And the seeds are tenacious.  We have only to wait through this winter until spring.  What will come up?  I've no idea.  I do know that the seeds are not just any seeds.  There will be new plants and new flowers, new roots and surprising fruit.  I trust it.  I trust the process.  I've seen sprouts come out of the worst soil and they always do, miraculously, each spring.  Now all I need is patience, the patience of a gardener, and the faith of a seed.