Be patient and trust. This has been my mantra for the past few months, one I received while communing with the plants in the Sacred Valley of Peru. It was given new meaning this past weekend on the Spring Equinox as sun and warm weather blessed the barren March land of Minnesota.
I spent Saturday with my dear friend, who is a botanist and yogi. She hosts quarterly sadhanas at a local yoga studio to celebrate the turning of the wheel of the year. We got to talking about Spring and the fertile soil of this new season and the seeds we are invited to plant in the womb of the softening earth. My friend had a beautiful ritual planned for her students that involved speaking intentions into literal seeds, blessing them and chanting mantras to imbue auspicious energy for growth. This inspired me to consider what seeds of my heart I want to plant this season.
And so, I ask you the same: what do you want to see grow in yourself and in your life? What desires of your heart and spirit are eager to break free and take root?
Sometimes we are afraid to plant these seeds. What if they don’t grow? It can feel vulnerable to acknowledge a heart’s desire, let alone to put it out there, nestling these delicate seeds in the soil of possibility. To acknowledge a real chance for them to grow can feel almost dangerous- exposing them to the elements, to reality. It’s easier to keep those seeds tucked in our back pocket- kept safe as a dream, a silent wish. But it is only by planting them and exposing them to the elements that they have the chance to grow and one day bloom.
Be patient and trust that the magic of nature will support the growth of your seeds.
I’ll tell you a story about some seeds I planted last year. These are literal seeds, mind you, but I think you’ll find the theme comes full circle.
Last Spring was the second year of my garden (the first one I’ve had as an adult). I spent the early Spring months clearing out the old beds, and when the soil was soft enough, I dug out new beds, upturning sod, digging, and smoothing out a new home for my plants. It was laborious and I got my annual May sunburn. “The Sun is strong in May,” my dad always says, “You better wear sunscreen.” Of course, I didn’t wear sunscreen and paid for it with a painful red stripe across my back.
I was particularly proud of one of the beds I’d dug out. It curved in a lovely half-moon shape off the fence, and I’d placed large (heavy) rocks all around it that created a satisfying separation between the garden bed and the rest of the yard. I knew day lilies would come back in the center of the bed, tall and wild and orange. On one side of them I decided to plant bulbs- I think they were Irises, a gift from my mother. I knew I wanted something special on the other side. I thought of the packet of California Poppy seeds I had in my fridge. The instructions were simple: bury the seeds three inches in the soil in late Spring.
I’d never had much success growing or keeping seedlings alive; they were always frail and scraggily and never did well when I transferred them into their pots. One year I impressed myself by fostering baby tomato plants from seeds. Those tomato plants got huge that summer and my mom and I had a fruitful harvest. I felt hopeful as I plugged my California Poppy seeds into the newly dug garden bed. I tended them daily. I watered them, sang to them and whispered blessings for growth and nourishment.
Weeks passed and I saw nothing growing from the place I’d sowed these seeds. The day lilies were coming back, as I knew they would- reliable as ever- and the Irises started to poke out of the earth, unfurling their hearty leaves like a prostration to the Sun. But no sign of my poppies. The days got warmer and longer. Summer came. And so did the weeds. I tended my beds, watering constantly because of the unusual heat and drought. I pulled weeds (the beds were getting overrun) and it was hard to keep up. The whole yard seemed to be a mess of weeds (and not the good kind like creeping charlie and dandelion).
I went to the nursery with my mom one day and brought several boxes of plants home to fill in the empty spaces in my garden that had been revealed now that everything was growing. I looked disappointedly at the bare spot where I’d planted my poppies. There were weeds there. I frowned. It was already mid-June. With a sigh, I decided that my little seeds had failed (that I’d failed). I pulled the weeds, delicate mint green things that were actually quite sweet looking. In their place I planted Monarda (a wonderful, spicey pollinator). I walked away feeling somewhat defeated yet pleased that another plant friend would take the place of my lost poppies.
Life happened. It happened hard that summer. There were many unexpected changes. I ended up moving and having to leave my precious garden behind (but that is a story for a different day). Much later in the summer, my friend-the yogi and botanist- told me to come by her garden to harvest California Poppy. I thought despondently of my failed seeds, but I was grateful I could still make medicine from this special plant. When I got to her house (my friend was out of town), I knelt beside the bed of poppies, their gentle yellow petals dancing in the slight summer breeze. My heart gave a jerk. Those delicate mint green leaves… almost sprite-like, floating above the ground…
What I’d thought were pesky weeds, had in fact been the beginnings of my poppies. I almost cried as looked down at my friend’s bed of blooming poppies. I sent out a silent prayer for the poppies I’d unknowingly destroyed. I’m sorry, I told them, I’m so sorry.
I hadn’t been patient enough with my seeds. I hadn’t trusted that they would grow. Instead, I’d let a trickle of doubt destroy them.
As we enter the season of Aries and witness the wheel of the year turn to new beginnings, warmth, fertile soil and growth, I ask you again, what seeds of your heart do you want to plant? And once you do plant them, be patient and trust that they will indeed grow.