Tag Archives: growth

Lent 29

Pearl small

A pearl is all swirling softness, nacreous light. Where does it belong? Will you try to flatten or mould it, bending it out of shape until it shatters, like an ugly sister forcing on a glass slipper? Or will you allow it to have its curves and its lunar mimicry, and listen to its wisdom song of beauty made from irritants and toxins?

Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

Lent 28

nut small

Change is always longed for, and never stillness. Yet does the seed shift restlessly in its place, crammed all around by loam? Does it yearn to dance and long to give voice to its being? Or does it wait, drinking in silence and immobility, swaddled by soil and held by the earth. It knows this dark womb is working its deep and loyal magic, and that spring may not be hurried.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018

A Story to Share: The Seed Blooms

This is a story God gave me this morning in prayer. It’s been quite a struggle to write it up with ‘flu, but anyway, it spoke into my circumstances, and I hope it might be a blessing to you too. x


The Seed Blooms

The seed was formed on the head of a hydroponically grown flower, in a long greenhouse. It had only vague memories of this time, as all of us struggle to remember well our earliest moments. It did remember the feeling of the hot sun, sliding down through sloped glass, prismed into an unnatural temperature, and that one day, just as he was feeling at his fullest, someone knocked the back of his mother’s head and he fell into a hessian sack. Most of his brothers and sisters came too, though a few fell to the ground, and some were left behind, holding onto the dying flower head for all they were worth.

From the hessian sack, the seeds were poured into tiny, foil-lined packets, and sealed shut. There was no air to breathe, no light to see by, no heat to warm them, no moisture, not even space to speak into or call one’s own. Surely this nothingness, if it were death, would soon pass. But it did not. And nor did the seed think it was anything so natural as passing on. For where had they come to? It was nowhere and nothing.  By and by, many of the seeds took to simply sleeping, for what else was there to do in the packet?

But the seed we are thinking of used his time differently. He used it to let fly the only thing he had left of his own, his imagination. He imagined growing. He imagined the sun on his back, he imagined something he had never experienced but felt the need of in his innards, he imagined the warm, living texture of soil. He imagined the creatures that might exist there, he imagined how it might feel to grow, he imagined beauty. He thought about what colours he and all his siblings might be, if they were ever allowed out into the world. He imagined being who he was meant to be, in all his singing glory.

The seed packet was sent in a lorry with thousands of other packets to a garden centre on the outskirts of a city. More and more gardens were being paved over by the city folk, because who had the time to deal with wildness any more? Far easier to tend concrete. So, the seeds did not sell well, and many of them languished there for years. Can you imagine years spent locked up in the vacuum of dark, knowing you were meant to feel the gentle warmth of sunlight? Can you wonder how it might feel to be imprisoned in airless silence, when you knew you were meant to breathe deep of fresh air and grow tall? Can you sense how awful it must be to feel dry and listless, not even able to dehydrate, but just be sure that you were rotting somehow, when you were certain that you were meant to be bursting into life through vibrant, nutritious, rich soil? When you knew there were the beginnings of roots inside you that were meant to delve and dive? The seed did not have to imagine this hellish existence, for it was his life.

The dark dreariness seemed that it would never end. Indeed, he had nothing but a softly dripping hope in the underworld of his soul that it ever would. There was no reason for the hope, except that he could not totally bring himself to believe that he existed for nothing, and that the colours and songs in his heart were never to be seen or sung. The hope was deeply painful, and sometimes he wished that it would shrivel up and die, and that he would too, because most of the time it seemed a pointless life and a cruel hope with no foundation.

Unbeknownst to the seed, his packet, stuck behind so many others in the Garden Centre, was almost beyond its sell-by date. There was no guarantee any more that any of the seeds in his packet would ever live. They were moved to a big bin in the centre of the aisles, near the checkout, with a big sign, “Bargain bucket, 10 packets for a pound.” The shop had a new manager, and she wanted to get rid of some of this old stock. If it didn’t sell in a week, she’d throw all of them in the skip.

Six days went by. On the seventh, a little girl called Amy came into the store with her grandmother, who was 86. They went over to the seed packet section and came away shaking their heads. They only had Amy’s pocket money to spend, and all the packets were too expensive. They headed sadly back out, but just as they were passing the checkout, Amy’s Grandma saw the sign. They went over to the bucket, and Amy began to dry her eyes.  She looked at the bin, then at her grandma, who smiled, and then opened her red-mittened palm to check that she did indeed have enough money. The two fifty pence pieces twinkled back at her under the fluorescent lights.

The manager was marching past and paused briefly, mid mission, to say, “No guarantee on these, they may not grow, past their best you see.” She waved the back of her hand at them with a dismissive flick, her duty discharged, and walked on.  Amy’s Grandma frowned, “Well, I’m past my best too, Amy, shall we give them a chance?”  Amy nodded, and put her coins in her pocket whilst they picked out ten packets of seeds.

A day later, the seed’s packet was carefully ripped open, and a small, shaking hand received him with glee, along with many of his brother and sister seeds.
“Now be careful, make sure you trail them along the row, not too close together. Give them room to breathe,” said an adult’s voice that sounded a lot like Grandma. And the seed was astonished to feel fresh, cold air. For a moment, he could not understand what was happening. He had been so long in his prison, that the space all around him was overwhelming.

It was good to be dropped down into something soft and cloying. He felt the urge to nestle down.  Was this, could this be, soil? Soil that he had dreamt about all his long life? And then, before he had time to take this in, there came a drizzle of something wet, along the furrow where his packet had been carefully sown. But the strangest thing of all, was that there was light. He had only vague memories of light, and had begun to think that it had all been a dream, the greenhouse, his mother, the feeling of warmth and growth, and yet, he could see. He truly believed he could see. Not only earth, but sky! It was quite a shock after spending so long in the dark, cold, airless packet. He was silent in wonder.

“Now, cover them over. Carefully, children! Pat them down just a little and give them some more water.  That’s it.”

And no sooner had the seed begun to get used to the light, than it disappeared again. The soil was pushed over him, gently, so that it was not, when he got used to it, so dark as he’d feared. He breathed a long sigh, one that had been trapped in him for a very long time indeed. He had not, as he had at first feared, been put back into a packet, but was where he belonged, in the earth! In the good, mulchy, wonderful, smelly, rich, earth! He wiggled himself comfortable, relishing the freedom of movement which had never been his. How delightful it was to be able to stretch himself and feel alive. He felt a funny feeling in what he supposed were his toes, as they wanted to stretch down into the soil and dance. He felt more moisture from above and the warmth of the sun beating down, even on this cool Spring morning.

Every day after that brought a new surprise, and a new adventure. At first, he felt so full of joy he could split open, and then, very soon, did just that, and those dancing feet pushed out of his casing and down into the good earth. Little tendrils grew out and nuzzled into the soil, sucking up nutrients. The seed was nourished for the first time in his life and he burst into life above as well, pushing a green shoot up through the grains of mud into the air.

In a very few weeks, he was as tall as the children’s wellingtons. They came every day, without fail, and were almost as excited to see the seeds grow as the seeds themselves  were, to be growing. They oohed and aahed, and watered and watched and waited. The plant, for now he was no longer a seed, could see a little sign that read, “Community Garden Project,” and beyond this was a small allotment, and beyond that a trio of tower blocks, where the children all lived. Amy was the sweetest of them all, and tended to her plot with a care and sensitivity that warmed the old lady’s heart, as well as the grateful heart of the seed she had rescued.  He grew as much for her as himself and before he knew it, there was a bud forming at his topmost leaf.

It felt wonderful, finally, to bloom. After so long hidden away, with no idea that he might ever taste the open air, or see the sun, let alone be able to grow and become. He knew what was tucked away inside him, he had always known, but to be given the chance to let it be, that was truly something. No guarantee, just as the manager had said, but here he was all the same, bursting into glorious orange, and filling Amy’s heart and his own, fit to burst with long anticipated joy.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt photo from Pixabay

9. Reach


Striving, yearning for the touch of sky, aching with blue. We all desire to be heavy with colour, and climb towards it. But to grow is the journey, and pushing will only make our stems weaker, and our leaves unhappy with their slow un-blue greening. Let the river of sap make its own way, and pay no attention to those who worry about vertigo; for it is just as good to look down as it is up, soil and sky, earth and heaven are sisters to our souls.

Photo and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017

169: Car Park/Parking Lot

169 car park mf pippalou

Did we then, pave over Paradise, lost to us now? The concrete jungle grew so fast, who knew that it would spread, disease-like, steamrollering every green thing in its way? Well, here you are, flat and dull and painted with your borderlines, your cartoon people and wheelchairs, all white and flaking. Conveniently maintained and close, with trees strategically tubbed in unusable corners, rootballs festering.

But stand still here, and counterpointing the slamming of car doors, the loading and unloading, there is a whispering, a conferring, a conspiracy of growing things. They will rise up unheeded through the false rock, breaking apart the conglomerate, encroaching on your edges. They will not be thwarted, but spread their dandelion leaves and their sap-song along every unguarded crack in what is after all only surface, conquerors once more, earth regained.

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

162: Crossroads


The light of love streams in from the left and the living water bubbles through on the right, and the twain meet over my bare earthed toes. And here I am Lord, listening for your voice, waiting for your tap on the shoulder, the peace in my heart, to tell me which is the best direction. And all I hear is a third way. Why choose a path? Why not stand here and grow? The world says hurry, the world says pick one, the world says keep moving, the world says go.

Why not stay? Why not stand? Why not look about you? Why not grow deep down roots and tall swaying branches and reach for more sunlight and brooks of lapping light? Where is it you have to rush off to? Where are you journeying, except towards death, who will find you sure enough here on the forest floor when the time comes? Why not meet her here on your own territory, on your own terms and turf? When she sidles up, you will feel her footsteps in the soil, and the weariness in your sap, and you will be ready, after a life wisely lived, not spent searching out the inevitable.

Stand in my love-light-life and be a tree. Grow and spread, dive and delve. Be the marker of meeting, the embodiment of encounter, the tree of my trysting. All is here.


©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016