In the deepest, darkest winter they begin to arrive, the stuff of dreams. I could feel the longing rising in me as I poured over them--the seed catalogs. Could spring have been far behind when Burpee was promising me tomato plants guarenteed to bear heavily with fruits of extraordinary flavor?

In that bleak time I dreamed of gardens impossibly rich. When spring finally does arrive, the reality of the hard work involved in turning the soil, planting the seeds, removing the weeds dampens my ardor a bit, but one magical, dreamlike element remains. Hard work, nibbling animals, bad weather and the general neglect because I've gotten too busy doing other things won't prevent the real miracle of spring from happening. In spite of it all, a seemingly lifeless seed will become a green and living thing.

Well, of course it will! Don't be silly. Otherwise, why would we plant them? Still, every green shoot, every pair of tiny dicotyledons that poke themselves out of the soil is a miracle some skeptical part of me never quite believes will really happen.

This is an ancient and sacred mystery played out every year for those who have the eyes to see it. It is rebirth after a long sleep, life from death with the promise of more life, more seeds, to come. It is life arising from dry lifelessness, dormant winter becoming the wealth of blossom and green leaf. Contained within those seeds is the mystery so ancient, so sacred, that Gods were dedicated to them, rituals celebrated for them. Planting a seed is an act of faith, but the reward is a glimpse of eternity, fragile and tenuous, but life coming from life and returning life in an unbroken line from the dawn of all living things. How many thousands of generations of seeds gave rise to that one? How many seeds will it produce, new life from old life? Or will the seed die and be reborn in another way, serving as food for man and animal?
Our survival comes from this life as well. The Grain Gods of old, like the grain they represented, were the willing sacrifice Who died to ensure continued life for Their people.

The metaphores are endless, so basic is the truth. Our seeds are our hopes, our projects, every plan we ever made or dream we dreamed and, of course, the fruits of our own lives, our dear children who are the seeds of ourselves come to fruition.

A seed is just a seed, but someday it might be a tree or the first of a new strain of extraordinary plant or of a new generation of arts and inventions. We have great expectations for our little seeds, no less than we should have great hope for and faith in our children, our new ideas and our beginning projects, the seeds of our lives. Born of our experiences and plans, our love and attention, and resulting in the fruit of our labors, they provide life and seeds for further works, for future generations, our one, best chance for immortality. Hope and hard work are as effective with these as with any seeds.

Spring is about hope and renewal, about rebirth and promises. Some of it just happens and we can enjoy it for free. Some of it takes time and effort. In my garden shed are paper packets of promises, on my desk, seeds of dreams. Only time will tell which ones will bear heavily and produce fruit of extraordinary flavor. In the mean time I'll be pulling those weeds and trying to believe in the miracles born of hard work and the magic of the seed.