Seeds of Change

The potting shed on Owl Island has been calling me. It’s mid-February and my body and bones ache for warmth; my mind and soul yearn for the promise of renewal that planting brings. In times past, I’ve planted seeds for creativity and watched them quickly sprout, strengthen and flower, but not this time.

I’ve come to plant seeds for a friend who’s very dear to me. The seeds I’m looking for can’t be purchased at home and I don’t even know if they’re available in Lemuria. The sign nailed inside the shed door reads, “Here we can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.” Hmmm, not quite what I had in mind.

None of the categories listed on the numerous drawers will help:seeds of wonder, seeding your poetry garden, fancy rhizomes for fiction writers, character seeds, journalistic bulbs, Harry Potter mandrake roots and on and on. It seems all the genres and needs are here but the one I need.

Then I remember, this is Lemuria, the hidden continent. These seeds will be tucked away out of sight. As I turn slowly, in the tiny shed, a shaft of light illuminates a corner of the sloping ceiling and reveals a packet the color of old wood and forest moss. Fading letters spell out “Seeds of Change”. The paper crackles when I touch it. It’s never been opened–either I’m the first to discover it or it’s been rejected by people who hate and fear change.

I choose a fairly large terracotta pot and fill it with ample soil mixed with a bit of peat moss to lighten it and help it hold water in a parched climate. The seeds are varied–some fine as dust others thick and tough. With my penknife, I make a slit in three of the larger ones, then soak them a few minutes to give them a head start. After they are planted deep, I sprinkle the delicate ones on top and cover lightly with soil and mist the pot thoroughly.


I pierce the packet with a stick, label it Heather’s seeds of change, and plunge it into the pot.

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