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 by Piper Jones

It’s in the earth. 

My gramma was a refugee, forced to leave her homeland and shuttled in to an arranged
marriage to a man who didn’t speak her language or the language of their new country. When
she left, she told me that she carefully sewed seeds into the lining of her coat and put potato
starts into the toes of her shoes. She brought with her the seeds of home and sustenance, the
taste of her roots.  

My gramma taught me how to feed the soil. At a young age, I worked alongside her, learning to
compost and act kindly towards the earthworms. She taught me the language of plants. I do
believe my green thumb was nurtured by her steadied attention. 

Year later, when I was leaving home for adventures on the west coast of Oregon, my great
aunties and my gramma brought me seeds to take with me. Seeds so that I would never go
hungry, that my family would be tended.
 
I think about metaphors when I am in the garden, and in the lush forests of Oregon. How well
things grow when the soil is rich and alive. I think of my work with my clients similarly. In just
the right amount, we water and feed the things we want to grow. We make room for what is
coming up. In time, there is the harvest, the feast, the satisfaction of deep connection 

and health. 

I suspect we all carry within us these seeds of sustenance and wholeness. We can tend 

to them together.