…walking this earth where my feet are at home for this moment, throwing seed everywhere, to see what might land, what might arrive from a far-off place, and this morning, for this blessed body that i am, there was a small flock of sparrows, a few fat pigeons, the young magpie that we rescued from getting its neck wedged between the fence slats, two jackdaws, and a dove.
all these winged song-breathers landed at the sight of my arms carving the air, the seed falling like bold little prayers, puncturing a great unbelief.
you might think that faith always needs something sure and specific to be planted into, but you forget how many common journeys you take with faith as the compass, and a garden will remind you of this if you will pay attention.
there, i said it, pay attention,
already that is an act of worship if you send your eyes to the hidden places where God likes to be found.
the birds, bellies full, will return, although some never leave, like the sparrows who are my neigbours, having chosen to nest in the old rhodedendron that marks the boundary of this patch of land that is ours, from the patch that is our other neigbour’s.
sometimes we are all crammed together on a mustard seed, and learning how to live together in a great kindness, is the prayer and the worship and the gift that we bring to the altar.
the jackdaws will fly away and then return, and the magpie knows that this strange-footed body will return again later with something that feeds.
how faith waits expectantly for me to leave the safety of my house with seeds, a show of yes-i-believe-this-is-already-done, yes i can taste it already, yes let me say thank you before i go and plant it.
tomorrow, this soft mammal body of mine will read the news, or at least the parts that my eyes are still willing to carry to my heart, and then, to make penance for my part in all the small wars, to make reparations, to offer a balm to the world, to my neighbour, to God, i shall go outside and throw the seed, knowing some will grow, some will blow away, some will feed, but each seed will die, has to die, in order to live, but this is an old story that you can find for yourself.
a thing only lives if it dies.
over and over.
mostly, here, in this corner of Scotland, it will feed a small, soft body, and many bodies, a sign that my life has a purpose, that the angel who sits on my shoulder still manages to whisper into the unfoldedness of my ear, that i have managed to water my heart enough for the message to drip through, how to leave a soft mark on the world, how to make a moment easier for one other breathing being.
© Liezel Graham 2025
liezel graham 