This is by no means an original thought, but I have experienced this now in both ways and would like to share the experience and what it showed me.
I had cared for plants before—many of them. My grandmother had been a farmer, and I always felt that her green thumb had been passed down to me. But despite all my experience with planting and tending to life, I had never grown anything from a seed.
On a whim, I bought a few packets, not expecting much. It was just a simple experiment, a new process I had never attempted before. I placed the tiny seeds into the soil, covering them gently, and left them in the darkness. I didn't know what to expect. Would they take? Would they even grow?
Three days later, I stepped outside, and to my amazement, tiny green sprouts had emerged. They had pushed through the soil, breaking free from their shells, reaching toward the light. I realized then—these seeds had been waiting all along, dormant yet full of potential. And it wasn’t until they were placed into the darkness that they could truly come to life.
And that was when it struck me—the darkness wasn’t just part of the process. It was necessary. Without it, the seed would never break open. It would never develop the strength to push through the soil. It would never reach the light. The darkness was not a punishment, nor an end, but the very thing that made transformation possible. In that hidden space, the seed undergoes its greatest struggle, forcing itself open, unraveling from within, changing completely before it even sees the sky. The weight of the soil is what gives it direction. The pressure is what compels it to rise. Without the darkness, there would be no growth.
But once the seed has conquered the darkness—once it has pushed through and found its way to the surface—all it seeks now is the light. It no longer lingers in the soil, no longer looks back at the place where it began. It stretches higher, drinks in the warmth of the sun, and lets the air fill its leaves. The darkness was its beginning, but the light is its future. It no longer fears the struggle that brought it here, for it knows now that it was never meant to stay buried. It was meant to grow.
And so it is with the soul. We must first be buried in the unknown, in struggle, in solitude, before we can rise into who we are meant to be. The darkness teaches us, strengthens us, and prepares us for the light. And when we finally break through, we no longer crave the place where we once hid—we seek only to grow, only to reach higher, only to embrace the warmth that was waiting for us all along.
These seeds' journey reminded me of my own—how I, too, walked in darkness for a time, only to emerge transformed into the light. The journey of the soul is much like that of a seed, for it is in the depths of darkness that we find the strength to rise.
I had cared for plants before—many of them. My grandmother had been a farmer, and I always felt that her green thumb had been passed down to me. But despite all my experience with planting and tending to life, I had never grown anything from a seed.
On a whim, I bought a few packets, not expecting much. It was just a simple experiment, a new process I had never attempted before. I placed the tiny seeds into the soil, covering them gently, and left them in the darkness. I didn't know what to expect. Would they take? Would they even grow?
Three days later, I stepped outside, and to my amazement, tiny green sprouts had emerged. They had pushed through the soil, breaking free from their shells, reaching toward the light. I realized then—these seeds had been waiting all along, dormant yet full of potential. And it wasn’t until they were placed into the darkness that they could truly come to life.
And that was when it struck me—the darkness wasn’t just part of the process. It was necessary. Without it, the seed would never break open. It would never develop the strength to push through the soil. It would never reach the light. The darkness was not a punishment, nor an end, but the very thing that made transformation possible. In that hidden space, the seed undergoes its greatest struggle, forcing itself open, unraveling from within, changing completely before it even sees the sky. The weight of the soil is what gives it direction. The pressure is what compels it to rise. Without the darkness, there would be no growth.
But once the seed has conquered the darkness—once it has pushed through and found its way to the surface—all it seeks now is the light. It no longer lingers in the soil, no longer looks back at the place where it began. It stretches higher, drinks in the warmth of the sun, and lets the air fill its leaves. The darkness was its beginning, but the light is its future. It no longer fears the struggle that brought it here, for it knows now that it was never meant to stay buried. It was meant to grow.
And so it is with the soul. We must first be buried in the unknown, in struggle, in solitude, before we can rise into who we are meant to be. The darkness teaches us, strengthens us, and prepares us for the light. And when we finally break through, we no longer crave the place where we once hid—we seek only to grow, only to reach higher, only to embrace the warmth that was waiting for us all along.
These seeds' journey reminded me of my own—how I, too, walked in darkness for a time, only to emerge transformed into the light. The journey of the soul is much like that of a seed, for it is in the depths of darkness that we find the strength to rise.
They live.
We sleep.
We sleep.