Read by Matilda Longbottom

I took the dusty glass jar from the basement shelf, the bean seeds inside rattling like a forgotten memory. My heart dipped as I realized that I hadn’t planted the seeds last year. These weren’t just any beans—they were Italian heirloom seeds from my grandpa. For years, I’d planted them faithfully, not just to reap a harvest, but to save seeds for the future—seeds that connected me to my roots.

With a flicker of hope, I headed outside, determined to try again.

My grandparents came from Southern Italy, bringing with them the wisdom of peasant farmers and the soul of gardeners. Even in our Wisconsin city, farming stayed in their blood. They planted gardens bursting with tomatoes, zucchini, beans, and basil—tiny reminders of the life they had left behind.

While my nana didn’t tend the garden herself, she transformed every harvest into magic at the table. Her recipes were simple but delicious, lessons she passed down to my mother, who became a phenomenal cook. Those meals weren’t just food—they were stories and traditions served on every plate.

When I married and we bought a house with a big backyard, it was natural to plant a garden. We ambitiously tilled the soil that first Summer, learning along the way. Year after year, I planted the Italian beans, always ending with enough to eat, share, and save.

But life took unexpected turns. After my divorce, I moved with my sons into a smaller house with only a modest yard. With little space and time to grow my own food, we joined a farm co-op, and my children discovered new vegetables—celery root, kohlrabi, and beets among them. Even without a traditional garden, I continued to tuck my Italian beans into flower beds to preserve the seeds.

Until one year, I didn’t. Life got busy, and the beans were forgotten.

That’s how I found myself staring at the jar, holding onto a fragile hope as I planted the last of my grandpa’s seeds. But no matter what I tried, the seeds wouldn’t sprout. After several failed attempts, I gave up.

It was disappointing, but eventually, I realized something profound: the seeds themselves were just symbols. The real seed—the love of the earth—was already planted deep within me. Life’s twists and turns hadn’t uprooted it. It flourished, unseen, through every small act of gardening and every meal shared with my family.

There’s something healing about plunging your hands into the soil in Spring, grounding both body and soul. I always start with the intention of wearing gloves, but the allure of bare hands in the earth wins every time. There’s a connection—ancient and real—that happens when you touch the soil directly.

Now, with a bigger yard and a new garden, I find myself amazed again at the miracle of a seed. From a tiny cucumber seed grows vine after vine of delicious fruit. I’ve started experimenting with composting, learning new techniques, and marveling at the life that emerges from the earth.

Even more encouraging, I see that love of the soil blossoming in my children. One son is becoming an arborist, fascinated by foraging and the interconnectedness of nature. Another has become an adventurous cook, delighting in the colors and flavors of vegetables. My daughter finds joy in harvesting from the garden—one generation planting seeds of love, the next reaping a harvest of connection.

What our ancestors knew instinctively, science is only now beginning to confirm: healing the earth and healing ourselves both begin with the soil. There is something sacred in tending the ground that sustains life. It reminds us of where we come from and the endless cycle of renewal. ❖

About the Author: Aimee Claire Cooks is a former teacher turned homeschool mom who finds her best inspiration while walking in the woods or digging in the dirt. She believes her best crops have often come from the seeds she accidentally planted. Aimee and her husband enjoy exploring the scenic beauty of Wisconsin with their blended family. She recently published a book and maintains a blog where she encourages single parents on their journeys. To Aimee, words are another type of seed—planted to help others flourish and grow.