Seed Thoughts
I’ve been quiet for a while because I haven’t known what to say. In the last year, so much has happened, and I’ve found that I feel like a student in this ever-changing life and often would rather watch and wait than say anything at all, especially if what I say may sit in all of your inboxes until the end of time. But I do want to let you know, the dollars that you sent in the fundraiser early last year were put to good use, Reyhan Herb Farm moved from Petaluma to the East Bay, and I spent a lot of time working on projects last year that I am still waiting to tell you about. In the meantime, I want to share some words about the current moment.
The farm sky in December
I’ve been silent in disgust, silent in awe, though some people on this mailing list would scoff because they’ve heard to no end about how the world lands in my body.
The war with Iran last year left me speechless. Not even my notebook has heard a word about that yet. I watched my Iranian community in the Bay Area shriek and squirm under the pressure and violence of that period. Most of us have been waiting for something like that to happen our whole lives. We’ve been watching the consent being manufactured, and ducks being lined up for decades. And then it happened. Worst nightmares do come true. Now the gate has been opened in my mind that was previously closed. Yes, something that terrible can happen to my homeland, and yes the whole world will seem to watch with their mouth shut. We were screaming in agony.
My emotional response to this most recent violent suppression seems more like a silent suffering. My baba got back from Iran last week, and I can’t seem to get myself to ask him any questions. His best friend called today, and I listened to their conversation. His friend asked, somewhat sheepishly, “when you went into town, were the streets covered in blood like they say they are?” “No,” said my baba, “I heard they send crews to clean it up in the middle of the night.” I’m impressed that his friend asked this question. I don’t know what to ask, and I don’t know what to say. My mouth feels cemented shut.
Seeds don’t speak either, and they have begun to exponentiate in my pet collection, which probably already rivals all of the handfuls of seeds your mamanis have brought from Iran combined. (And this is only the beginning.) Their quiet voicelessness has been amassing in my room, now taking up ten cubic feet of space. It’s becoming time to house them elsewhere, lest their silent voices wake me up in the middle of the night.
A small handful of beans in the palm of a hand
At some point here I feel like I’m supposed to say something about the way a seed coat softens and cracks open, revealing a sprout. Maybe I’m supposed to soften and crack too. It isn’t Spring yet, and maybe time will tell.
Seeds don’t speak, and I don’t say much either, but we work hard. And we’ll be here, alchemizing all of our grief as we all trudge through this hard time. There is a poem that inspired the name of this farm by Seyed Ali Salehi, and in it he says: “Whatever ready tears you have not yet cried, give them to the rain, and receive trays of music and Reyhan – basil. That is plenty!”
Up close to a flower spike from a basil plant
Music and basil.
May that indeed be the natijeh* of our untold grief.
*natijeh translates to: descendents, conclusion, result.
می شود از بعضی گریه های نا بهنگام گذشت
و رفت
،و هر چه داری ببری برای باران و
طبقی ترانه و ریحان بیاوری
!خودش خیلی است
I plan to share new seeds with you from this burgeoning collection in the coming months. :) See you again soon.
Love,
Farmer Sama :)
