A mourning dove plants a seed

Last week I watched the devastation from Hurricane Helene. And then Milton followed on its heels. I simply wasn’t in the mood to write when so much was going on. But I did sit outside to reflect on it and ground myself by coming back to the moment. Here’s what went on in my own little world in the front yard.

I listened to the screeching metal wheels on the train tracks, the ‘ding ding ding ding’ of the Railroad crossing gate lowering, and the vibrating boom! of two train cars pushed together.

I watched a mockingbird land on the fence and sing all the songs it has borrowed, like stories, from the other birds.

I watched for vultures and saw about ten heading south on their migration.

I journaled as I watched a hummingbird and then a fuzzy butt bee poke around the last of the sunflowers and it brought my attention to the seeds.

A seed, to be exact.

That one seed that a Mourning Dove dropped from the feeder last fall. That seed fell to the earth below the porch railing into the soil warmed by the sun. And the wind blew dirt and leaves and whatever else over it, eventually covering it for the winter.

In the depths of the cold darkness, that seed lay there, dormant, waiting for the warmth of spring. Snows came and went, the temperature plunged several times to the teens and below. The wind howled.

And the seed was deep below, laying contentedly in the dark, waiting.

And then the season shifted, buds popped out on the lilac bush weeks ahead of the other plants. The snows melted, the sun warmed the earth, and that seed woke from its slumber, sending a tendril upwards, pushing through the heavy compacted soil until it popped up into the light.

Unbeknownst to us, that little seedling grew in between the dead stalks of the previous year’s flowers. Then, it was as if suddenly it appeared before us, this green growing leafy stalk. This wild thing that grew on its own among the dead things of the year before.

We were busy that spring and did not plant our marigolds until late May. By then the sunflower had large leaves and numerous buds bursting into little sunflowers all over the plant.

This continued all summer. As some of the buds matured into flowers and bees visited and then they went to seed and more buds came along to replace them. All season long this repeated until thousands of seeds had burst from the buds by summer’s end.

And then slowly, the flower petals withered and fell away leaving behind the dark center full of seeds, and the little sparrows came and ate their fill.

All of this, from one seed dropped to the earth by a careless dove.

What is one seed that we can plant to take root next year? An idea? A project? A random act of kindness?  What can we plant to produce such an abundance like that sunflower plant?

Do we have the patience to let nature take its course—plant the seed and wait through winter’s darkness, resting through the howling winds and the bitter cold snows, take shelter deep within the darkness to await the returning light of spring?

What projects can we start over winter? What ideas can we spend the endless cold months thinking through, planning through, until the returning energy of growth helps it burst into life?

Without darkness, light cannot bring forth life from the seed, and without the light, the seed would decay in the darkness. The seasons teach us powerful lessons indeed!

Now, in the heart of Autumn, is the time to let those seeds drop into the warm earth and allow nature to slowly pull the blanket of soil and decomposing debris over them. Allow them to rest in the darkness, snug within the roots of surrounding grasses and old flowers. Silent. While the winds and the snows above blow. Preparing for the burst of growth as all the right conditions come together for it to spring to life.