The Wonder of Seeds
It is as if within that seed lay a kind of restlessness, a kind of ferment, a kind of aching; and out of that aching, out of that restlessness, something had to break open – and in the breaking open, direction, in space and time was given to this tree. Stephen R. Schwartz
photos by Julie Ericksen
~ Stephen Robbins Schwartz ~
If you look at these oak trees surrounding this house… one can only notice, in an exploration, that they arose from a seed, and that there was nothing in that seed – at least nothing that could be directly experienced – which would give an indication that such a mighty form would arise like that – such a great and beautiful form would stretch towards the heavens. It is as if within that seed lay a kind of restlessness, a kind of ferment, a kind of aching; and out of that aching, out of that restlessness, something had to break open – and in the breaking open, direction, in space and time was given to this tree.
All of our emotions, really, are this same kind of ferment, this same kind of creative restlessness which is emerging from a silence and going toward an as yet unknown goal. And we are the seed, our life is the seed, and at various times there are boundaries that don’t feel good to have, especially when something seems to be fuming and pulsating so much of the time.
We are conscious beings. We are conscious seeds and we can come back to the restlessness; we can make a choice; we can discover the energetic element within that restlessness. We can, in a sense, cooperate in the barrier walls of the seed falling apart and giving rise to new life. This is the possible beauty of our experience here; but all of this in the context of a silence, an unknown.
“From the audio ‘Principles of the Process’, New York 1991”
…the seed is restless with life current, and becomes so restless that it bursts, and out of its bursting comes the trees and the flowers and the grass…
…it is time as seedpods in the great adventure, to put down the blinders and to let the life force in as it is and not as we want it to be. Here is the beauty to end the congestion…
…We have been fighting against the movement toward expansion, unfolding, blossoming…
“From the audio ‘The Body-Bridge Between Thought and Feeling’, November 1991, Albuquerque, New Mexico”
~John O’Donohue from the book To Bless the Space Between Us~
from the poem For Freedom:
As the embrace of the earth
Welcomes all we call death,
Taking deep into itself
The tight solitude of a seed,
Allowing it time
To shed the grip of former form
And give way to a deeper generosity
That will one day send it forth,
A tree into springtime,
May all that holds you
Fall from its hungry ledge
Into the fecund surge of your heart.
from the poem In Praise of the Earth:
The wonder of a garden
Trusting the first warmth of spring
Until its black infinity of cells
Becomes charged with dream;
The the silent, slow nurture
of the seed’s self, coaxing it
To trust the act of death.
~ St. John of the Cross ~
from the book Love Poems From God,
Translated by Daniel Landinsky
They Have Different Needs
Some seeds beneath the earth
are dormant.
They fell the last time the cool air
turned the leaves
gold.
Those seeds have different needs than we do;
let them go about their life
completely unharmed
by your views.
We have cracked open, we sensed
even beneath the earth—
the holy was near,
And are reaching up to know
and claim
light
as our
self.
~ Mary Oliver ~
What I have learned so far
Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world?
Because, properly attended to,
delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don't think so.
All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of --indolence, or action.
Be ignited, or be gone.
~ Wendell Berry ~
The Wild Geese
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
Of summers end. In time’s maze
over the fall fields, we name names
That went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seeds marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.