Seedtime: Photography as Spiritual Practice
Eve Turek, Guest Writer
“We thank Thee then, O Father, for all things bright and good,
The seedtime and the harvest, our life, our health, our food.
No gifts have we to offer for all Thy love imparts
But that which thou desirest, our humble, thankful hearts!”—Matthias Claudius, 1782; trans. Jane Campbell 1851.
eve
I have always associated “seedtime” with spring, the season of tilling and planting, and new growth emerging. However, a recent stroll through a waning, drooping autumn garden revealed a truth, the depth of which I had never considered: the seeds of tomorrow’s growth come from this fall’s season of release. It is out of the harvest of what has been that what will be emerges. Seeing dried fall flowers bursting with new seeds altered my perception of this season I associate more with endings than beginnings.
Most of these seeds will drop into the soil at the base of the plant that produced them. In this way, many flowers considered only annuals would reseed their garden beds and sprout fresh the following year. But one seed in particular that I saw is constructed not to drop, but to fly. The wispy “tails” on Milkweed seeds act as sails in the wind, scattering the plant prolifically. Milkweed is the host plant for monarch butterfly caterpillars. I find it fitting that its seeds take flight on a journey away from their producing plant, just as the caterpillars plumped on milkweed will morph into butterflies—the fall generation of which will significantly outlive all other generations of butterflies and make migratory journeys of thousands of miles.
Research shows butterflies retain specific sensory memories of their former caterpillar life. Successive generations of monarchs will return to the areas where their great-great-great grand-caterpillars crawled to lay eggs to be nourished on another year’s milkweed crop. Seeds are encoded to grow into the same kind of plants that produced them, although someone seeing a seed or a caterpillar for the first time could never envision the transforming growth each one holds. And so it is with us.
I have recently been paying particular attention to all things “butterflies,” – including caterpillars and chrysalises. I’ve seen newly emerged Swallowtails drying their wings and aging butterflies whose wings are tattered and torn, yet still flying and finding their nourishing nectar up to the end. When my husband was dying—his body and soul were on their last, earthly, migratory journey. In this season of harvest and letting go, I found strength and comfort in the seeds of autumn.
Spring seems far away, but new growth—beyond all we could ask or think—is hidden within the seed, the caterpillar’s chrysalis, and each of us. Autumn seeds remind me to hope. They tell me that as bodies wither, spirits soar, and that essential memories from this existence will be carried into the next. Though I may water autumn seeds with tears, I know mourning will turn into dancing; sorrow will melt into joy; morning will overtake night; caterpillars will morph into butterflies, and flowers hidden in fall seeds will emerge in the warmth of spring.
Eve Turek
Joanna https://www.joannaseibert.com/