Every day I plant a seed. I never know what’s going to grow from it. A tree. A weed. A flowering vine. But every day I get up is a day I am planting. And if I plant well, and I tend to it over time, the most amazing things can grow. Redwoods that will live longer than me. An elm that will take care of me in my age. A cypress that will stand against the wind and time. Violets and clover that I can lay in to watch the clouds from.

I can plant with anger or love or indifference or intention and care, but I’m breathing, I’m planting something to add to the garden of my life.

The longer I live the more chance I have to see the things I plant today offer what they to the world. But even when the days grow shorter, it’s still worth it. To plant. To imagine what a sprout may do.

And yeah, I’m lucky enough to live in a place — most of the time — where the ground is fertile and ready to give. To try. It’s not that way for all.

So I’m not squandering my days. No fucking way.

I’m planting every day I got.