Starting Seeds

I think I’m supposed to like starting seeds. I think I’m supposed to enjoy feeling the soil in my hands, the seeds tiny specks of hope. Maybe I’m supposed to like the spreadsheets and schedules created by growers to make things easier, although I doubt this.

I love seed catalogs. On cold winter days I lose myself in their pages and let myself dream. I let the seed packets arrive at my door, let myself be drawn in by their promises of beauty for only a few dollars. But as winter fades, the hope changes to anxiety, my seed packets stuffed in a drawer, unopened.

Overthinking, anxiety, avoidance—this is a familiar pattern for me. 

I usually throw a packet of zinnias and cosmos directly in the ground. I can blame nature for my failures. But even with the birds, the squirrels, and the neighborhood cat using my garden as a litter box, there have always been blooms. Last year I started snapdragon, strawflower, and dahlia seeds indoors. I sowed them all at the same time and grew them in a window, immediately breaking two rules. I watched them every day, rotating the trays to help the sunlight reach every side. I did it all wrong but still there was green that poked out of the dirt, green that started with two tiny leaves, but eventually became more. The plants were a bit leggy when I planted them, but months later I had blush pink snapdragons, scarlet and apricot strawflowers, and new dahlia varieties in my garden. 

I felt different when I saw these plants, plants I had watched every day, plants I had babied for weeks. I felt something more when I saw them bloom—their beauty meant more to me than the zinnias I had thrown into the garden bed. 

This year I have grow lights and new seed trays and an abundance of seed packets. I have basil and snapdragons, celosia and amaranth. I have new zinnias and cosmos that I will try to start indoors instead of wasting the entire packet in my garden. I tell myself it’s okay if I start them late. I just need them for the dahlias. They can be small and green as spring shifts to summer. I won’t need them until August and September. I have plenty of time.

But there’s still anxiety. What if the seeds don’t grow, what if my garden is a bare patch of brown all year? 

Just start, I tell myself. Just open the packets and put them in the dirt. Maybe they won’t grow. Maybe I’ll kill them or bugs will eat them or the squirrels will dig them up as soon as they’re planted. Maybe my garden will be more dirt than blooms. But maybe, I think to myself as I look at the seed packets, the excitement of what could be stirring up something that feels like hope. Maybe I’ll step outside on a late August day and the neighbors’ driveway will be hidden by shades of pink, peach, and white.