So I sat there on the wicker chair in front of my house, waiting for the middle school bus, and removed the sunflower seeds from the large flower head sitting on my lap. This had been the one that grew in my side-of-the-house garden, a photo of which appears as the kick-off to the August chapter of my book, Food for My Daughters.
As the beautiful pattern below the seeds revealed itself, a marvel of nature, I thought of that line that goes something like this: "We can live as if nothing is a miracle or as if everything is." The extraordinary design magnificence of that sunflower convinced me that everything is a miracle.
As the beautiful pattern below the seeds revealed itself, a marvel of nature, I thought of that line that goes something like this: "We can live as if nothing is a miracle or as if everything is." The extraordinary design magnificence of that sunflower convinced me that everything is a miracle.
And that's when it hit me. If I plant these seeds next year and save them again, and then plant, save, plant, save, plant, save, one day I would be able to give the seeds to the children of my children, from the flower that appears in the book about their moms.
An hour or two later, as the slowly-setting sun streamed in my kitchen window and on the table where the pile of sunflower seeds were splayed across yesterday's New York Times (which had at least three articles somehow related to urban agriculture), my daughters scooped up the seeds in their hands. And do you know what happens naturally when you do that? It forms this (see picture at right).
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