The seeds will germinate when conditions support life

Spring is a time to plant seeds. Not just in the ground, but for our ever budding, and evolving life.

Lily is a certified FAM teacher, herbalist and public health professional. The big idea behind this Substack is we deserve to know ALL the options when it comes to our reproductive health choices. Here we aim to fill in the gaps.

Spring can be slow to arrive in Montana. A tease where days may hit high 60s, followed by evening squalls and frigid nights.
Even so, outside in my garden Springs feels fast and miraculous.

The crocuses slipped my notice one day, and were in blossom the next.

The garlic scapes, first indistinguishable from grass, now have a thick vibrancy about them, leaving no uncertainty about their pungent nature and the bulbs forming below.

I stared at the twig of the apricot tree for a month, wondering if it was dead, until one day the tiny buds left no doubt in my mind — it was alive!

During winter, plants consolidated, pulling energy into their roots. Their leaves dried and any seeds scattered to the wind, to lay dormant, awaiting the cues of Spring.

There had to be a long cold winter, hibernation and countless little deaths to allow space for the growth I see around me.

I can relate to these plants.
Through the winter, I let parts of my identity die. I quit my job — part of a slow loosening of long-held beliefs about what I must do and how I must be to hold value and worth.

Some days, my pile of debris feels so high — so many years worth of discarded matter — that I wonder how I’ll be able to push new growth through it. How long will it take? Will I recognize what emerges?

Last summer, I planted yarrow and marshmallow in a small patch of ground I reclaimed from overgrown grass. Within days I noticed healthy growth emerging and congratulated my success. As the days went on, I realized what was emerging was not the herbs, but weeds. For weeks I let them continue. It felt good to see growth, good to tell myself and my partner all my time in the garden was yielding results, even though I knew it wasn’t the full story. Eventually I pulled out the weeds. The yarrow was there, small and uncertain. The marshmallow never grew. There was nothing wrong with the weeds, it was only that I was using them to hide my discomfort with the empty space.

This lesson of the weeds and the herbs is indicative of more than just my garden. I’ve had the experience of starting down a variety of paths, only to realize they weren’t what I’d intended or wouldn’t be the right fit after all. Sometimes I’ve known right away, other times the realizations have donned more slowly. Sometimes I’ve pivoted, other instances I’ve stayed, hiding behind a job, a relationship, even a location that I knew didn’t speak to the core of me.

It’s simple to understand why: it’s more comfortable to have something to point to, and a way to define ourselves that we and others readily understand. Not knowing is a form of empty space. It’s a form of uncertainty and many of us are uncomfortable with both. We may fill our schedules, our calendars, our fridges — we choose to stay with the ill-fitting familiar rather than venture into the unknown.

Some days I latch onto weeds, attempting to fool myself and others, even if I know they’re not my truth. Other days I wake-up, alive with the faith that my seeds and roots are still storing nutrients, and building strength for a journey upward.

From tending my garden I know I can create the conditions to support growth. I can add nutrients to the soil, water to the earth, and ensure seeds have space to emerge. Some seeds will only germinate after a period of cold. Others require light and warmth. Others need to be scratched and tumbled before they will crack open and relinquish their stored energy into a vulnerable seedling.

As a gardener I do my part and then surrender, trusting the seeds and their own innate wisdom.

Do you have the courage to plant the seeds you most want, the faith to trust they’ll emerge when the timing is right, and the follow-through to see them through as they transform, maybe — someday — bearing fruit?

Happy Spring! May your seeds germinate when conditions support their growth.