Luna was holding a large mango seed, having just finished snacking on a mango on her way out to the garden.
"I might try planting it," I suggested on impulse. I knew no one who'd ever planted a mango seed or grown a mango, but I suppose it was an inspired moment, because I couldn't think of why not to try putting the seed in a pot in a warm place to see what would happen. Mangoes were tropical trees, far out of their region here in the Pacific Northwest, but perhaps with some coddling a plant could be grown, even if it never bore fruit.
Luna was initially surprised by my suggestion, but liked the idea, found a pot, and planted the seed. "I thought you were going to tell me that you'd put it in the compost, or throw it into the woods or onto a pile of mulch. It didn't occur to me that I could plant it."
"I hadn't thought of it before with mango seeds either, but I don't see why, given the right conditions, it wouldn't grow."
I reflected a little on what might be necessary to get a mango seed to grow.
"Of course, in order to sprout, it might need scarification of some kind. It might need to be physically damaged, or to go through a temperature cycle that mimics what happens to it in its natural environment before it sprouts."
I knew that many temperate zone fruit tree seeds need to be nicked with a knife or put in a freezer for a period before they will break dormancy and grow. Other seeds, such as those from redwood trees, require fire in order to sprout. Until those things happen, conditions for the new plant are not likely to be amenable to growth. Some sort of physical tumbling-around, seasonal temperature fluctuations, or other exposure to transformative conditions, combined with the passage of time, seems necessary to break such seeds out of their waiting period--during which they are still very much alive--and into active growth. Those which never receive the signals that conditions for growth are favorable will eventually lose vigor and die. Some may sprout only to encounter adverse conditions, and will die quickly. Others, however, will live long lives.
We spent the rest of that morning's gardening period harvesting kale for an activist conference here at Lost Valley. The kale was a volunteer crop, having sprouted from seeds spread by other kale plants which themselves had volunteered in previous seasons. Perhaps four years ago, we had actually planted kale in that section of the garden, but since then, it had planted itself. Unlike mangoes and other perennial fruits, kale is an annual--and a vigorously self-seeding one at that. Kale seeds, too, choose favorable conditions to sprout in, but they sprout much more easily and readily than their harder-shelled, perennial counterparts in the world of woody plants.
What caused me to suggest the planting of a seed that I was fairly certain would never grow into a tree that would actually bear fruit? Was it the DNA within the mango seed itself speaking to me, wanting to be expressed? Or was I perhaps being influenced by the kale seeds that had grown into these kale plants, conspiring on behalf of their perennial brethren? And if these particular kale plants weren't talking to me, was I being influenced by the kale I had eaten the day before, or the week before, or for the many years leading up to this morning? Had a gardening bug sent from the plant world gotten into my ear and drowned out my common sense to such an extent that I was now advocating frivolous experiments such as planting tropical fruit seeds?
What, I wondered as I continued to harvest, is a seed? What is the difference between a seed and me? A seed seems to be mainly potential, promise--spirit, in a sense, just barely manifesting in physical form. The seed contains all the information necessary for the growth and reproduction of the whole plant, but it is contained in the tiniest (or sometimes, as in the case of the mango, not-so-tiny, but still amazingly compact) package. Given favorable conditions for growth, that seed will start the miracle of transformation, re-arranging, and re-integration that results in many parts of the "environment" becoming part of that plant, and the plant, in turn, becoming its environment. The "boundary" of the organism--if such a term can even have real meaning in such a complex web of transformation and exchange--is never easy to define, and certainly always changing. "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together" applies equally well to kale plants, earthworms, soil microorganisms, leaf litter, sunshine, wind, water, beetles, Beatles, me, and you. And yet sometimes an individual manifestation, like "that kale plant," "this poet," "that mango," "this piece of mashed-together plant fibers with soybean-ink imprinted on it so as to spell these words"--sometimes the individual is the gateway to seeing the universal. Moreover, the whole doesn't hold together just as one homogenous mass (think of a body composed only of skin cells)--it's only the diversity and complex interactions of all its distinct parts that allow it to be whole. Even if every part we call a "part" is an illusion, an artificial mental construct, every one of those parts is essential.
How many distinct bits of genetic information are contained in just a single strand of a plant's DNA? How many lifetimes does it reflect? How many latent lifetimes does it contain?
How much of a miracle is even one seed?
Such are the thoughts that drift in an out of my mind while spending time with plants.
Is it any wonder that I suggested that Luna plant that seed instead of tossing it aside? And even if it had been tossed, and transformed into something else, isn't even that a miracle?
--------------------------
Later that day, I and the other gardeners were recollecting times when we'd each felt as if we'd had mental breakdowns. We talked about the rough times in our lives, the times when we did not feel part of the whole and did not see our own beauty as individuals--the times when we felt alienated from society, the rest of the living world, and ourselves. And we talked about how every one of those experiences had changed us. Each one of us had emerged from that tumbling-around, that cold dark winter, that raging fire--and we'd emerged transformed. Important parts of ourselves that had been dormant had finally been able to sprout and grow. The power and spirit latent in the seed had finally been able to find fuller manifestation in the world of relationship with other parts of the larger whole--and the manifestation of this growth was not only physical but spiritual. Our seeds, our dreams, were who we truly were all along, and by releasing them into the physical world we also allowed them to grow in the spiritual world. And what broke those seeds out of dormancy was often the combined action of metaphorical "gardeners" and the rest of the living world telling us that the time was right. Our minor or major mental breakdowns signaled not the end of our lives, but, in many senses, new beginnings, achieved because we'd "cracked" some of the hard cases enclosing latent parts of ourselves.
--------------------------
The following morning, as I awoke, I thought about that mango seed, and how I intended to research what conditions allow a mango seed to grow. And I thought back on a couple of challenging conversations I'd had over the last few days--conversations that had tumbled me around a bit internally. I also recalled several other conversations that had nourished and restored me--seeming almost as essential as water--after these more disturbing exchanges. I thought back on the hard outer shell of that mango seed, and realized that perennial plants which ultimately live the longest are often also the hardest to get sprouted.
In my semi-awake state, I envisioned myself as a collection of seeds, some of them easily-sprouted annuals, which keep me going day to day, and some of them long-lived perennials, heirloom apples and old-growth redwoods, which need tumbling-around, freezing, or fire to get them growing. These plants ultimately offer a different, uniquely rich perspective, an experience of deep time and a wisdom not necessarily found in some of those more exuberant but shorter-cycled plants that are parts of my life. I resolved to talk with those people whose words had helped tumble my own harder-shelled seeds or whose energy had seemed to upset my internal equilibrium, and I knew that I would do it with gratitude--because some of those hard-to-sprout seeds need not just the water of compassion but a bit of nicking or a temperature fluctuation to get them going.
And when I watch that mango plant grow, or not grow, it won't be with just intellectual curiosity. I suspect that that seed still has the power to teach me more about "the ecological self," miracles, diversity, challenge, and wholeness than I will ever be able to convey in words.
Chris Roth co-facilitates Lost Valley's Apprenticeship program in Organic Gardening, Permaculture, and Community.
©2002 Talking Leaves
Summer 2002
Volume 12, Number 2
Ecopsychology, Self and Place