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| Photo by Andrej LiĊĦakov on Unsplash |
Last week I planted tomato seeds and snap peas in egg cartons to germinate. The spinach and carrots my kids planted three weeks ago are an inch high now, living in pots on the back deck. Isn’t it interesting that I refer to these tiny bits of seed and sprout as carrots and tomatoes, as if they are already vegetables ready for harvest?
I spooned soil into an egg carton and pressed a hole in the center of each scoop. Don’t plant too many, my mother advised me. Most will grow, she said, and you really only need a couple of well-bearing plants to keep you in tomatoes. Mom plants every year, but until now I’ve ignored her good example of self-sufficiency, relying instead on the produce stand and the grocery store and the generous neighbors whose gardens bear more than they can eat. But this year I’m listening to the experts. I’m doing my best to follow their instructions, even though I sometimes feel a bit silly. But I did it anyway. I slit open the packet of seeds.
With the very tips of my fat fingers I coaxed out the tiny specks. A slight rub of thumb against forefinger slipped each seed into its own dome of soil. Mom says once they sprout I’ll need to transplant quickly because the roots will want to grow. Give them room, she tells me, and they will be healthy.
My mother speaks with confidence, from experience. I have neither. Even after I’ve put my fingers into the soil, even after I’ve touched and watered, I still doubt. Each morning when I go to the windowsill, I don’t really expect to see green. But I check every day. I am both unbeliever and believer.
My seventeen-year-old dribbles water into the egg cartons with no great care or concern. She’s in no hurry. She’s not worried. Many things in her life may be uncertain, but this thing with seeds is simple and sure. All we can do is water and wait. So that’s what we’ll do.
