Benched Week 79: the deliberation of seeds

I had almost given up trying to find something interesting in my little patch of Corporateland, USA – aka downtown Arlington, VA. Above the park I chose, the looming buildings looked like giant Lego constructions.



There were a few green spaces to choose from, nestled between the corporate centers with their first-floor restaurants. One fountain glowed dramatically down a shaded walkway.



But it all seemed so cold and calculated. Pretty. But lifeless.

Until I saw Mackenzie out of the corner of my eye.



That’s the name given to this little child, poised with a watering can over a patch of dirt, presumably having just planted a seed. An inscription nearby said, “There now, you can grow.” Mackenzie forever lingers in wait over that spot, anticipating.



I can relate.

Growth is a deliberate process. Frustratingly slow. Whether it’s a garden plant or an idea or a child, growth demands patience in the waiting and diligence in the working. We do our part to get the environment right to encourage sprouting. But the progress has its deliberate pace. It’s hard to see the incremental changes.



But there’s pleasure in the unfolding. I know it’s pathetic to check my little vegetable garden out back twice a day, but I can’t help myself. Knowing I won’t see much difference, I’m comforted to know it’s changing, if ever so imperceptively. One day these yellow blossoms will be replaced with zucchinis. Far too many zucchinis.

And when they come, time will play that shimmering trick where it is, simultaneously, a blink of the eye and an eon. Too fast and too slow.



Thinking of this on my bench, a new sound grabbed my attention: the sound of a trumpeter, busking near the subway.

And it made me think of Will, our trumpet-playing son, who is to be married on Sunday. And though I’m tempted to wonder where the time has gone, I know the answer: into a long parade of moments. Some exhilarating. Some challenging. But all a part of the process of becoming. All watched over with the preparation and patience that parents know so well.  As do artists. And gardeners. Ever checking the conditions so as to say:

“There now, you can grow.”