These are things of life. These are the beginnings that we all speak about. They are as simple and as complex as we make them. They do not rely upon our desires and plans. They do not bend to our wishes.
In my world the dirt is mixed from my own soil and compost with peat added.
The seed is the phoenix that rises from the ashes of last year’s garden.
The water is nutrient rich from sitting over time in the warmth and cold of the barrels that I have set up around the place.
Time is marked with the remembrance of keeping the little pots wet everyday; to remember that in my homemade hot house there is the potential for life.
Warmth is the sun and the glass, and the homemade grow tables that sit under them.
I forgot one necessary component, a component that is often forgotten: that of hope. Everyday I check on the little pots even though I know that the little seeds have not gotten a chance to do anything. Everyday I open the large, heavy doors, covered with a thin, green screen to protect the potential life from the sun and the heat hoping to discover the smallest sign of life. I water, and check the water, and check the heat. I continue to hope.
And one day, I tell myself: one day, I will eat again.