The box is cut open and the burlap sacks are neatly packed and labeled.
Cosmos. Zinnias. Sunflowers.
The unpredictable spring rains have stopped long enough for my husband to till the large patch of land at the bottom of the hill.
Today is the day.
I’ve always dreamed of having a huge wildflower meadow where I can meander among the colors and fragrances of the hardy mix of beauty, snipping a random bouquet for the Mason jar vase on the kitchen counter. We’ve been on the farm for 5 years. I have no idea why I’ve waited so long.
I poured over catalogues, watched YouTube videos on prepping our heavily-clay, rocky soil, and even bought a book on wild spaces. I carefully selected seeds that would dissuade the plentiful deer and rabbits from nibbling, the sunflower species likely to grow the tallest, the perfect mix of color and variety.
And today is the day I plant.
I look at the large, bumpy patch of land, tilled and ready. I hold the mix of tiny seeds in my hand.
I toss the seed and gently walk over the land to set them, then turn and exhale deeply.
My impatient soul will be watching daily for sprouts, despite reading it may take weeks.
I do not wait well.
As always, I’m humbled by how nature teaches me. So much of life feels like this wildflower garden. We do what we can, when we can, how we can, to prepare and line things up for success, but in the end, so often, it’s just a matter of tossing our best efforts out there, praying and waiting.
Maybe it’s waiting to hear about a new job, a life-changing diagnosis, a wayward child.
We like to imagine we are in control, that we’ve tilled the ground and laid the foundation, so surely success will be prompt and plentiful. We’ve researched and made the wisest and most informed decisions. We’ve taken action. And then……
All of our preparation, all of our planning, all of our prayers cannot rush the outcome.
We have to wait.
I tell myself the seeds know how to grow without me. They know exactly when to be still, and when to push through. My interference could actually mess with what they innately know to do. My job now is to step back and have faith.
Faith that the rains will come, followed by bright sun. Faith that my best efforts will be of benefit to someone along the way. Faith that inside each of us, just like inside each tiny seed, there is a deeply rooted inherent knowing of how to grow and breathe and become our best.
And so, just as with the wildflowers, I do my best, say my prayers, then wait to see how Life grows around me. Such is faith.