I have seen it happen thousands of times, but am still amazed each time it does. I know it can be explained scientifically and even performed with a degree of cold detachment, but I choose to keep a certain wonder about the process of germination. The transformation of a small hard seed into a viable plant that can be used for food still has a sense of magic or miracle for me.

Starting with the seed itself, we are presented with tiny sculptural beauties. The miniscule and globular seeds of the brassica family, the stone like practicality of the spinach seed, the no nonsense lettuce flake, the delicate ridged flat papery carrot family, and my favorite, the beet. Like a creature from a darkly themed Jim Henson creation, each cantankerous knob in the gnarled cluster is actually a seed of its own, almost as if to say, “if we all stick together, one of us will make it in this difficult world!”

At this stage, the seed can seem lifeless and dull. Hard and generally colorless, it is easy to take for granted this small package waiting to punch. In reality the seed is an embryo, full of potential energy, just waiting to be unleashed given the chance and the right environment. With the right temperatures, moisture and growing medium, this amazing device of reproduction can explode into a new beautiful plant ready to feed and nourish us. 

The seed is nature’s microchip. Although diminutive, it is packed with the necessary information it needs when awakened to begin its multi lateral path through the soil sending roots down for nutrients and foliage up for the photosynthesizing rays of the sun. I carry around a briefcase-sized container with all my seeds for the season. The potential for food production and the mouths that could be fed in that small box is astounding.  

I know the necessary ingredients for successful germination, but am still plagued with doubt in each garden as I place the seeds in the newly turned soil. My disbelief takes over, and with each one I tell myself there is little chance that this one will make it. As I gently water the surface of the newly sown soil, I silently beg the seeds to grow, but feel a futility in the asking. I leave to do the same thing again at the next garden, only to leave with a sense that I will repeat this process the next week because it seems impossible that these tiny entities will sprout into large crops.  

The next week I return to the garden and it seems like I was right. From a distance the brown soil looks unchanged over the past week. But getting closer, my spirits begin to lift. I can see the small cotyledons of the quicker germinating plants pushing through the soil. I kneel down to inspect the fragile seedlings and see the lettuce and radish establishing their place in the garden. I look at a pea's tender but strong vine literally forcing itself through the top layer of soil. The sun shines on the new green growth and the infant plants breath the fresh air for the first time.

Each plant still has a long battle ahead of them. So many factors will try to destroy them, but they will fight on, and I will do my best to help them along the way. But for now, I revel in the fact that the miracle of germination has defied my pessimistic outlook once again.