“The Seeds of Friendship or discovering how the joy of gardening can grow from a gift of just a few packets of seeds.” sweetbabyveg
Fat, pink blossom buds hang heavy over my bowed head as I kneel on the ground to till a new little patch of earth. I smooth the soil with my hand and this simple action rolls back the years so that it is now my own, five year old hand that I can see patting down the seeds and soil in the infant school garden.
It was in that little garden, edged with terracotta tiles that I first grew big orange pot marigolds and lettuce. This was special; something outdoors where magic could happen. At the end of the summer term we were allowed to take home left over seeds, flowers and vegetables. Handing over this produce to my Grandma showed me the joy and love which can be spread by the gift of a few blossoms and some seeds.
Every packet of seeds and every garden holds the possibility of growth and transformation and every gardener knows that. So when I plant my seeds or turn over a bed I am part of a family of gardeners all over the world who share the same journey each season; so many people who are getting back to the soil and growing their own produce the way their grandparents did before them.
Those who work the soil have always shared and exchanged seeds and plants and passed down knowledge over the years. Making seeds grow is gardening alchemy and the Seeds of Friendship or discovering how the joy of gardening can grow from a gift of just a few packets of seeds is a secret we all need to share.
Sweetbabyveg has introduced me to so many new friends with a love for nature and life and I would like to thank you all for the connections we have made. I can not send seeds to you all, but I can send you the gift of this beautiful poem by Muriel Stewart and ask you, if you can, to pass on a little packet of seeds to a friend.
Let’s start a quiet revolution……
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.