Of Daffodils, a Concrete Bench, Courage and Grace

Early daffodils, most likely "Ice Follies"

In the last week or so, the early daffodils have been blooming. Daffodils look rather fragile, with their delicate nodding petals and soft spears of green leaves. But one week in January, I discovered a secret. 

Note part of concrete bench at top right.

My husband and I moved the concrete bench (see top right in the photo above). This bench is so heavy that both of us can barely lift the top for a few seconds, so we moved it in stages. Lift top slab. Lean against tree. Move one concrete pedestal. Move other concrete pedestal.

To my astonishment, under the second pedestal, yellow growing tips of daffodil leaves were poking through the soil.

Daffodils that were under the bench.  

Weeks later, I keep returning to reflect on the life force of these daffodils, at the energy with which they grew up through the earth. They could not feel the sun's warmth or see the light as they grew, but instinctively, blindly, courageously the plants grew, cell by cell. Their desire to be in the sun, to become the flowers they were meant to be, overcame the weight of a concrete bench.

I seek the courage of these daffodils, the energy, the love and the trust with which they grew despite heavy odds against them. How wonderful in this case to be the witness - and the accidental agent - of a small miracle. I think now of God's grace as the removal of an unmovable bench. My job is to keep growing without fear. 

The Miracle of Seeds

I woke up to a sky of dark clouds and air filled with smoke from fires in a distant wildlife refuge. The atmosphere matched my mood. I drifted from one thing to another, aimlessly. Then my husband said, "Didn't you say you were going to plant seeds?"  

"Blue Lake" bush bean seeds ready to be covered with soil.

As soon as I began poking my finger in the earth, I felt happy. The soil was moist and warm. I dropped the bean seeds in one by one, then tucked them in with earth and patted the soil with bare hands. I planted a second row of Swiss chard, my favorite summer green. It's easy to grow and lasts all summer if you keep cutting the leaves. 

Swiss chard tastes great, takes the heat and is ornamental, too.

When I began gardening, I lacked faith. I couldn't quite believe that these tiny, dry, odd-shaped objects called seeds could transform themselves into plants. In those days, I bought all my plants at the nursery, where I could see them and touch them as proof they were real.

 Now I love seeds, and prefer growing plants from seeds because I still can't get over the miracle. How does a dry little thing that sits in a paper packet for months or years know when its day comes? How do seeds know how to grow?