Planting Seeds

What it is to plant the seeds, how can we but rejoice
in watching them grow? Here and there, sprouting
upwards, ever receding into that from which they came.
A forest of forms, more beautiful as preformed by
necessity. Is there a garden without a single weed?
What a shame it would be, for they but make the
delightful flowers more brilliant, and in their own
way, due to their proximity to the earth, are no less
vital and enduring. Of all the flora, what is it to
them such things as rejection or high regard? Our
awareness may act only as a morning mist, coming in
and out of their presence whilst nourishing their
fibers ever so delicately. How deceiving their awful
splendor and dazzling beauty may be! Though this
deception need not be one of betrayal, like that
of an artificial tree, as it is in such that the plant
life bespeaks of its life fulfilling abundance,
calling us towards it as it calls fourth the bees.
"Come and see, I am the world, everything is for, in
and by me," it says to me. And I must take it at it's
word, if only for a moment, if I am to appreciate
it's singular beauty. Yet it is in vain that the
flower seeks the sun, for if it were to even come
close to it's goal, it would surely be burned. Here we
must not place our own conditioned strivings and
unfulfilled desires upon it and instead make it’s
silence a testament to our own. In this silence, if
we are to direct our gaze a bit deeper beyond the veil of infinitely
reflecting light beams, we shall come to a single
ground. We begin to become dimly aware of the dancing fingers
of roots twisting about making what grows above all
but indistinguishable. Further on lies layer after layer
of the decomposed stretching far below that which we
found to be so perfectly composed. And if we
continue our journey, we come to the pulsating core,
one with such energy and superabundance, that it gives all
surface life the quality of a dream. Is not the
golden center of a dandelion but a vague recollection
of such? Like the foam resting atop the precipice of
a wave, our sense of order rests perilously upon light
years of an unknown order, going to where we do not
know, for a purpose unseen. With such an
understanding, how absurd it is to claim to be the
master of what we grow! To cordon off our plants, as
if they may last forever as servants to our own
remembrance. Let us not identify with that which we
grow nor secure ourselves as their maker, for whether
we realize it or not, all plants grow from one
source within and through the supporting substratum of
a single energy which by no means can be portrayed or imagined.
Let us remember that all growing techniques and
innovations are mere fertilizer for a process that
acts as a whole. The core itself is but a perpetual
dissipation, and the dust, to which we shall return,
along with the many mountains of the earth, shall find
their way to emptiness, a silver chord of a particle
that was, now floating on the non-mirror of
nothingness. Look with sharp attention upon any plant
and you will find this emptiness in its very form,
untouched by thought, unfettered by time, smiling back
at you in an eternal recognition. No need to despair,
let us enter again the garden! Let our plants be
allies, use their roots to heal and purge ourselves, use
their wonders to remember and realize, and to share
their fruits freely in the light of a transformative vision.