It’s in the labor of rising early, dressing each seed with light that draws me closer to the dreams of what fruit this summer will bring.
It’s in the squeezing of the water bottle, small soft streams of water pour nourishment onto surely parched soil beds where each seed receives it’s rest from a day hard labored growth.
It’s in the assessing, the noticing of early sprouts where I sip my coffee and, much like I sit and watch Sweet Basil and Little Tomato, anticipate what may come.
It’s in the gentle touch of the soil, the rolling of the seeds in my palm that center my thoughts like a tangible prayer.
It’s in the guiding, providing and encouraging of these little seeds balanced with the learning that allowing independence that reminds me that I am but a small guide in their lives. These seeds will exist and mature and provide with or without me in the months to come.
It’s in the early morning attending where I feel the pull to simply notice and believe in the promise of each buried seed, mushrooming cell.
It’s in the dark before dusk where I nurture these relationship that for many present without consequence, but to these small seeds it’s the offering of vital sustenance they need to begin their strong lives, deep roots.
Wait, you didn’t think this was going to be a post about boobs and babies, did you?