Living in the eye of a sunflower
I've become obsessed with planting seeds this summer. Every year I set out tomatoes, some of which I start from seed indoors, and I plant whatever is easy to manage by seed - radishes, for example.
This year was different. Our growing season began at least six weeks later than usual after an interminable winter and chilly spring that would not end. There was day after endless day of rain, which I enjoyed, but which also meant that all our gardens are a bit behind.
Then The Seed Bank opened, which I wrote about a few days ago. I had already planted everything for the summer, or so I thought, until I made my trek out there. Each evening, when it finely cools down, I've been adding a few more seeds to odd spaces here and there. And I plan to continue doing that and just see what wants to grow no matter what.
Planting seeds is an act of hope. No one puts a seed in the soil with the belief that it will curl up and blow away. We plant seeds with crossed fingers, hoping that somehow this hard crusty vestige of something will soften under the dirt and sprout into a wondrous plant, like my first sunflower here. The plant may feed us or feed a bird or it may be just enough to look at it and take delight. Any way you see it, there was hope in the start of it. Think on that.
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