Instead of feeling despair, I resolve to focus on the hope contained within the tiny seed
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I cover the tray with a clear dome and tuck the seed package in the lip of the lid for identification. The picture on the package shows a spray of deep burgundy flowers cascading over the sides of a planter. My memory bank flashes. There is the scent of spicey petunias, warm sunshine caressing my skin amid a myriad of sounds – like the intermittent drone of a bumble bee buzzing from bloom to bloom, and my favourite, the singular whir of a hummingbird extracting nectar in a morning mist.
I often wonder what drives my obsession to grow my own seedlings. I could just go to a garden centre and purchase plants from commercial growers. Instead, I am compelled to grab yet another tray from the shelf and fill the cells with seed mix. Just as I am about to continue seeding, I hear my phone bleep from the other room. Probably a morning news update. I resist the urge to check on the world situation, trying to stave off the anxiety that has recently occupied my heart.
Unsettled, I pause to stare at the seeds lying in my hand. As I sow them into the bed of mix, my thoughts return to the question of why I start my own seedlings. I am a gardener. But it is definitely not a title I carry lightly, nor is it easy. Some days it feels more like a compulsion than a hobby.
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