On Wonder

Why seeing a seed germinate is a drug and how awe can be nature’s defibrillator.

Hello you lovely lot. This is my monthly Tale - a story from life in the veg patch - which is free to all subscribers. If you’d like to consider upgrading to a paid subscription, it costs less than a fancy packet of seeds a month and you’ll receive a monthly video (like this), a weekly recipe with PDF recipe card (like this) and plenty more (see here). Don’t worry, there’s still plenty to go at on a free subscription – a monthly recipe, regular newsletter (like this) and these monthly tales (archive here).

Whichever subscription you pick, I’m delighted you’re here. Now, let me show my seed packets …

It’s seed sowing time. Almost.

I have to sit on my hands in early March because I’m so desperate to sow something that I often sow too much too early and end up with a leggy, exhausted jungle on the windowsill by late April.*

My eagerness is understandable. Speak to any grower about spring seed sowing and their eyes will shine, their pulse quicken, excitement will bubble over. Because the act of sowing a seed gets to the heart of what’s so gobsmacking about growing your own food. 

To plant a tiny, apparently inert seed into a thimbleful of dirt and water it.

To wait, checking it every morning for signs of life, to shuffle it to a warmer windowsill, turn it to the warm afternoon light, wait for sometimes two weeks for signs of life. This is hope so fundamental and an outcome so improbable that it feels like an act of faith. 

And then, when life does emerge from the rumbly expanse of soil, the livid shot of a green leaf is an electric shock to the heart. Nature’s defibrillator. Time to wake up from winter’s hibernation and start growing. The magic is beginning.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

What amazes me most about this moment of germination is the sheer alchemy of it.

From nothing, or apparently nothing, just a tiny seed so small you might lose it in the fold of the seed packet, comes life. Not just life. Food. Something that wasn’t there before now exists. It is magical. Wondrous to behold. 

To me, this sense of awe is a drug.

An antidepressant. I feel as if I’m seeing the very essence of the earth, at its most elemental, right here in miniature in my seed tray. It helps me remember what is real, what’s important, and that mostly none of the things I fret about are this real or important. Not in The Grand Scheme of Things anyway. Seeing a seed germinate makes me feel small, a tiny cog in a huge universe, just like this seed, and I find that hugely calming. It gives me perspective. 

Some people get a similar sense of awe from looking at the stars, or a spectacular view, or doing an extreme sport that brings them closer to death. Somehow it makes them feel more alive. More real. It allows them to set aside the day to day niggles, remind themselves what actually matters, and to experience uncomplicated childlike joy. 

It is futile to resist this drug.

I have no hope of restraining myself. I am hooked. So perhaps I’ll sow some early beetroot in modules this weekend. At least I’ll have the pleasure of marvelling at them germinate. 

*when I join the ranks of growers with a greenhouse, as I will shortly, this will no longer be a problem.