Now that the trees have assumed their sparse posture for the season, the ground is thick with a litter of leaves around which all manner of intricately shaped seeds are moving into the earth by way of a slow-motion burrowing. These seeds, the cores of nuts and fruits and the tiny and robust sheddings of wildflowers, have burrowed into my pockets as well. They are tucked in paper packets in the cupboard, tumbled in glass jars in the fridge, and awaiting my attention, spread out here and there on the kitchen counter. It is that time of year when the influx of seeds from this season’s abundance requires the unattainable tenacity and focus of a steadfast squirrel. I pulled on a thick fall sweater coat for the first time in over a year to quickly collect some seeds, and shoved my hands in my pockets to find, rather unsurprisingly, a pocketful of seeds.
Inside every seed is a clock. Some internal and inherent body knowledge, in relationship and exchange with its external environment, participating in a slow-motion alchemy, until finally upon the inspired hour, the shell breaks to become the sprout emerging into being. We are, at this moment, at the beginning of that journey around the wheel. The cold is only just beginning to settle as the sun’s light grows slight in its slant upon the world.
For many seeds, particularly those native to here in the northeast, this period of cold and darkness is entirely necessary to being. These seeds, attuned to a generational knowledge of place written into the very structure of their DNA, will rest until an entire season of cold has passed, or at least a few hard frosts have been felt, and conditions are favorable to grow. In the interim, they will conspire with gravity to burrow into the warm earth. They will soften their edges by way of the rain and snow and heaving frost. They will live in relationship with their environment, as if it were essential to being.
My pockets, and cupboards, and jars, and soaked paper plates, are at this moment a loving, if imperfect, environment for these seeds. I’ll do my best to keep them safe, shuttle and shelter them adequately, and in time move them into comfortable real estate where it is cold, and wet, and pleasantly dank all day. This busy gathering, carting around, and caretaking is a seasonal practice. And when I orient outward toward my environment, I can see it likewise happening all around me. This season of coming together, of cooking for each other, of exchanging thoughtful gifts and blessings, is a loving, if imperfect, taking-care of one another. A practice of being in relationship. A complex strata to burrow into as the cold sets in. And perhaps even, a time essential to being.
