June 3rd 2023

The Sower

We had to broadcast some pasture seed this morning as it was too light to work with our grain drill so we wound up spreading it by hand. It's a meditative and rhythmic task which I tend to enjoy. I watched seed arc from my palm and scatter over dry soil and I'm reminded of the seeds we plant throughout our day. The analogy of planting a seed is pretty ubiquitous and often feels played out to me, but then I'm reminded that there are so many different types of seeds. Dandelions spread by way of a simple breeze, while fire adapted pines require intense heat to germinate. Some seeds can float on the soil and do just fine, while others need to be buried with no light at all. Seeds can also lay dormant for years, waiting for just the right conditions to germinate. Let me give you an example, I had to have a very challenging conversation this spring with a close friend about forgiveness. We were talking kind of vaguely about that chat a few weeks ago and I expressed some regret for having waited so long to reach out, but they said, "If you'd have tried to talk to me about this a year or two ago, I wouldn't have been ready." At first I was surprised but the more I thought about our relationship it felt true. The conditions weren't right for either of us. It didn't mean that we didn't care about each other, or that we didn't want to make amends, we just needed more time. That seed had sat dormant for years, and then all of a sudden it cracked wide open and it felt absolutely urgent that I make amends. Forgiveness is a seed. Now, I'm sure that I'm a gardener with a mixed bag of seed. Sometimes I'm sprinkling flowers and poking in stems of willows with joyful abandon, but I've also had to reconcile that I've left my fair share of thistles and other noxious weeds in my wake. They have their own purpose, I'm sure, but they can cause a lot of grief. I'm trying, these days, sow more flowers, or at least tip the scale. When I say that I forgive you, or when I ask for your forgiveness, when I tell you that I love you, when I tell you that you matter, or that I see how hard you're trying, when I pause to tell you that I feel supported by you, or when I ask what you need from me, when I hug all the air out of your lungs, when I trust you with something important, and hopefully when I show you that all of these things are true... These are all seeds I'm trying to keep on hand, and I'm sure I've forgotten quite a few. Some days I drop just a couple and some days I'm more generous. I know not all of them will sprout right away, some may never emerge at all. Some will germinate just to die. That's part of the risk. But a fallow field is a lonely sight. What seeds are you sowing? How tied are you to their success? If one crop fails how on earth are we to start over again? This all leads me back to one question: Why do we sow? Is there enough joy in the mere act of sowing to make it worthwhile? If one crop fails should we change our approach and choose a different seed or a different field? I have more questions than answers and I think I need quite a few more acres to really untangle this metaphor, but I think you'll understand my purpose. The Sower can't call down the rain, or ward off the birds, or make the seed sprout. All we can do is be generous and hold out hope that things will bloom in their own time.