Blooming

It's that time of year, when we till the earth and plant the gardens that will feed us tomorrow and it is a process as old as time.

Digging up the dry hard earth, breaking up the big clods, sifting through it with our fingers trying to decide if it is just right.

Dropping the seeds in, sometimes in little clusters and others one at a time.

Knowing those seeds carry a heritage that goes back years and years and years.  Each seed carries the memory of its forbears, the strength to survive droughts, the softness to absorb the rain, the ability to grab whatever the earth has to offer and thrive if possible.

Each seed is the child of countless others and the grandmother of many more.

And each one that grows will struggle to thrive and blossom and produce both the fruit and the seeds that will carry its essence on.

Some call this the circle of life, others simple growth cycles, but the lucky ones, those who remember the one who started their cycle might call it love. And love is a complicated thing.

It is strong. It is imperfect. It is fallible. It is forever.

Growing up in the shadow of this kind of love is seldom easy, but those who do it are given something that loose seeds may never know. There is a sense of purpose and continuity that supersedes the moment and fosters authentic growth in the face of differences, so while it may feel discordant or difficult, it is never as far from the love as it may appear.

The blooms, the fruit, the product of such strength is a gift buried deep in the heart.