Seeds

 

 

Seeds
Loraine Lawson

My grandmother planted seeds everywhere, and, each day, she softly inspected her sprouts, proud of their potential.

Her garden reached longer than her clapboard house, and burst with green beans, lettuce, tomatoes, corn, rhubarb, strawberries, zucchini: Every vegetable you could find on a Southern dinner plate grew there. She selected each one carefully before meals, serving the tomatoes fresh, the zucchinis fried, the green beans boiled with ham, as God intended.

Blooming bushes dotted the landscape all around the house under her tutelage. Azaleas exploded into lipstick pinks. Hydrangea sported their brilliant blue-white clusters beneath the shade. Need I say there were rose bushes, basking in the afternoon sun? And sinfully yellow forsythia splayed in the spring breeze, branches ever ready to be stripped into a switch for a wayward child.

Just beneath the roof of the front porch, flowers nestled in long wooden beds. These she checked while the dew was still fresh, her experienced fingers lifting them, her eye scrutinizing for any sign of infestation. Coral begonias spilled over their waxy leaves. Geraniums burned bright over their greenery. Impatiens, in all the silken colors of an exquisite summer ball, lounged, soaking up sprinkles of sunlight.

Inside her small farmhouse, African violets rooted in every room, their velvet purple blossoms defying the sullen black Bible sitting nearby. These, too, have their time in her presence. In the back, a glassed-in porch sported a mini-Jurassic period, bright light flooding in upon the cacti and aloe vera. Overhead, gigantic ferns and delicate morning glory greedily overflowed their baskets, drinking in the morning rays. She granted an audience to each, picking up pots to check dirt humidity or pinching off some beginning blight that threatens her Garden of Eden.

She loved the small things, the simple things, the seeds. Her love was consistent, humble, and kind. And in their way, didn’t they love her back by sustaining her body and her soul?

 

Sacred Seed
Dr. Elizabeth Best

We have been poured from the cosmic seed sack
of one Universal Mind,
and scattered upon winds of Love with care,
so our souls do not land on soils marked by lack
nor are we blindly assigned a space
where each of us cannot grow and bear.

We have been formed in the surrogate soil
of a mortal mother’s womb,
but not doomed to lie in oblivion.
From our genesis, we were each primed to toil,
chase the light hidden beyond the gloom
and mirror the act of creation.

Each of us sprouted from this human earth,
dust-blown and blasted with blight
and constantly stem towards ignorance.
We forget that from conception and after birth,
we are infused with immortal light
and have access to Divine guidance.

As sanctified shareholders of the Light,
each to a different degree.
Let us illumine this earthly bower,
stretch our tendrils, intoxicate and delight.
Let us brighten bleak hills and valleys,
root deeply in all soils, and flower.

We can pour out our love essences
over all trials and pains
that break hearts, numb minds and cripple spirits.
We can yield fruit that nourishes strong consciences,
ensure that mindfulness never wanes
and dispense balm to soothe away fears.

The so-called “least of us” can rise to great stature,
given our singular, seminal nature:
as flesh, we root within limitations of sod;
as souls, we are extensions of the Mind of God.