In the back of my choir loft are some tall windows letting in the warm southern sun. I have packages of seeds of varieties that are unknown to me. The instructions are unusual too– no directives for the usual amounts of water, sun and soil– but strange commands for ample water drawn from the nutrient-laden well of my soul, loam properly stirred and warmed by the duende spirit, the light of inspiration from above, and the Divine breath for the proper circulation of air. Daily attendance to the seedlings would be an absolute necessity for no growth can be insured if the pots are neglected. Not having a particularly green thumb, I will be careful to follow the directions to the letter.
I also assembled my gardening tools: observation, insight, composition and metaphor, and a very sharp pair of shears to prune away superfluous words and ramblings.
I prepared the pots and finished by inserting the seed packet labels into each pot so I could identify the growth I know will eventually come forth– stories laden with sumptuous descriptions, characters of depth and insight, lively dialogue, and messages of profound meaning.
If I take care and nurture these seedlings, then the results, I know, will be bounteous.
Image and text: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006