Yesterday we planted seeds, my 3-year-old and I. We planted them in whiskey barrels whose soil has, shall we say, “rested” for a couple of years now. It was time for a revival.
First we tilled the soil, she with a Pioneer Woman cake server, me with the nail-prying side of a hammer because, you know, these are whiskey barrels, not 40 acres. Also I couldn’t find our shovels. Then we smoothed it over, getting our hands dusty and earthy-aromatic, because such joy is one of the things I want to teach my girls. Then we misted the dirt with the spray bottle we use to dampen curly hair before running a comb through it.
Then – then ! – I opened the first seed packet. Lavender. Teeny-tiny seeds. I showed her how to poke a hole in the soil, drop a couple of seeds in, pat the dirt back into place, and repeat until all but a few seeds in the packet were nestled in their new home. The remaining seeds were, of course, to finish with flair, and we sprinkled them with a flourish over the dirt like we were decorating a cake.
Then we misted again, taking turns with the spray bottle. We finished by saying “I love you” to the seeds we planted, with a sincerity that would make Linus and his pumpkin patch proud.
We moved on to the other barrels, repeating the process with chamomile seeds, then jalapeño peppers, sweet bell peppers, and lavender again. In one barrel we unearthed a marvelous community of ants; in others, we picked out leaf debris. We plucked out decorative ceramic frogs, dusted them off, and placed them back in the dirt to be companions to the sprouts we now eagerly await.
After cleaning up and getting drinks and snacks, the toddler wanted us to sit on the front porch to “watch our flowers grow.” I smiled and didn’t argue, because you don’t argue with platinum moments, or playing in the dirt, or tenderness, or planting miniature leaps of faith.
May you grow well, little sprouts.