Keeping Seeds Alive

It's been a season or so since my last post, and so much continues to happen. Life moves at a hectic pace, leaving little time to slow down and reflect. Over the past several months, I've had countless ideas for blog posts, even written a few in my head, but never sat down to bring any to life.

This morning, I read a daily meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation about planting something we may never live to see grow. Somehow, it brought all those unfinished thoughts together.

It reminded me of something I wrote when I returned to work in 2024 after taking some personal time away. In Finding Hope Again in Life's Brutiful Moments, I shared words my oldest son, Will, spoke at his brother's Celebration of Life:

"In many ways, our lives are pieces of 'Long Art,' where every interaction is an artistic expression that the next person can carry on and uphold."

I've thought about those words often.

And now, as the rain continues outside, the weather grows colder, the days get shorter, and I begin planning my fall garden, I find myself thinking about the seeds we plant but may never see bloom.

Not just the ones we put in the ground, but those we scatter through everyday encounters. Conversations, small gestures, unexpected kindnesses, brief hellos, and moments of connection we leave behind, often without knowing their impact.

Day after day, in conversations with clients, I hear people searching for purpose and meaning. More often than not, those conversations come back to relationships. We want to matter, to be seen, understood, and valued. We want the give-and-take of relationships that make life meaningful. Yet, so often, the very walls we build to protect ourselves become barriers to the connections we long for.

Countless blogs, videos, books, podcasts, and online courses teach us how to connect, communicate, and live more meaningful lives. We follow, subscribe, purchase, highlight, and save. We gather advice and inspiration, yet somehow we find ourselves no closer to the lives and relationships we say we want.

So, what's missing? What's keeping us from us? Maybe we are. You? Me? Yes, both of us.

We talk about what matters, make plans, set intentions, and promise ourselves we'll do things differently. We'll reach out to that friend, make time for someone we love, or finally begin that thing we've been thinking about for months.

And then we get distracted, life happens. We wait for the right moment, the right circumstances, or some guarantee that our efforts will matter. Or sometimes, we simply don't follow through.

It's not that our intentions aren't genuine. But intentions, however good, don't create connection on their own. At some point, we have to move beyond thinking about the life we want and just begin participating in the life we're living.

And maybe there's even something more. Do we give up too soon because we expect immediate results? Do we need evidence that our efforts matter or our kindness is appreciated before we can go any further? What if our invitations aren't accepted or the energy we invest in others doesn't find its way back to us? Does that mean it doesn't count?

We want to know the seeds we plant will grow. But what if we never see what becomes of them?

In many recovery communities, there's a familiar saying: "Don't quit before the miracle happens." I've been thinking about that phrase, and wonder if we might also say: Don't wait for the miracle.

Don't wait until you know your efforts will make a difference, or until someone else reaches out first. Don't wait until you're certain of the outcome. Plant the seeds anyway.

Reach out, say hello, extend the invitation. Share something you've created. Offer kindness without needing to know where it will lead. Make room for people to surprise you, and perhaps you'll surprise yourself.

Not every seed will take root. Not every relationship will grow. Some efforts will go unnoticed, and some connections will be fleeting. That's part of being human, too. The absence of visible growth doesn't mean nothing is happening.

Perhaps that's our 'Long Art.' Our lives are ongoing collaborations, shaped by the people we encounter and carried forward through what we leave with one another.

We may never know which conversation stayed with someone, which gesture helped them feel less alone, or which kindness inspired something beautiful years later. And maybe we don't need to know.

Know this: Plant what you can. Nurture what grows. And trust that some of the most beautiful things you set in motion may bloom somewhere you will never see.