Look at the glistening tomato.
Tell me what do you see?
Red, ripe, succulent.
Do you see pasta?
A bolognese sauce?
Dainty, carefully cut little cubes of red,
Adorning a bed of greens?
Or do you see the burst as you sink your teeth in,
On the swell of a hot summer day?
In the crowded, buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights,
Of the mega box grocery store,
Herded through like sheep in mazes,
Eyes glazed over,
Carts rattling forward,
We forget where it all comes from.
We forget—
These neatly packaged bundles of plastic,
Are not meant to be the end product.
No.
What if I told you,
It’s the beginning?
Now look again.
A womb.
A promise.
A story set in motion.
Water.
Sugar.
Nutrients.
They hold,
Protect,
Nourish.
Everything the seed needs,
Sweetly packaged,
Supporting the first stirrings—
Of life.
A fruit carries memory—
Page 68The flower.
Now transformed—
It holds the dreams of the future,
Nested, safely inside.
It offers itself up,
Soft and sweet,
to be eaten,
Ensuring these seeds travel.
Or sometimes to drop, roll,
To sit day after day, until—
Vivipary—
A live birth!
Seeds germinating within the womb,
Bursting forth from the sacks,
Then sinking its roots into the earth.
Now look at this head of lettuce.
Tell me what do you see?
Perhaps a scold from your mother,
Eat your greens!
We chop the leaves,
But the hard heart?
Why discard that.
Now wait!
Now look again.
Don’t you see the ridges?
Place it top side up,
A shallow bowl of water,
Don’t you see?
These roots now growing!
Fresh leaves for the next Caesar salad!
Look at your clove of garlic,
Long forgotten.
No need to look ashamed
Looking at something now so alien.
Now look again.
Find some dirt,
Some soil,
Bury it not so deep.
Look how it sprouts,
Thin, flat green leaves.
The smell, mildly sulfuric.
Now, taste.
Don’t you see,
Endless, milder herbaceous garlic flavor.
Perfect for spring salads,
pesto,
Maybe even some garnish!
These things are precious!
These things have life!
Don’t toss these so needlessly,
For in the rubbish, they’ll not grow.
Now look again—peppers and onions, leeks and fennel.
Now look again—Apples and pears, citrus and mango.
Now look again—the peach, the plum, even the pineapple.
Every fruit, every seed, a womb reborn—
Carrying memory, carrying promise.
The circle of life.
Now look again!
A garden we’ve created,
So wonderfully lush.
From the scraps we’ve not forgotten,
The cycle continues.
A womb reborn.
From waste, new life.
Our grandmothers, our grandfathers,
All who fed from the soil,
Knowing nothing was squandered—
Only seeds in disguise.
Not every seed is meant to grow.
A gardener knows this all too well.
Some are thinned.
Some returned.
Some saved for another season.
Now remember—
Not every seed is meant to grow—
And no one may force the soil.
The womb is not a field to be conquered.
It is soil with its own knowing.
Choice is the womb’s wisdom,
The power to pause—
To say: not this season.
Some seeds are shaped by science,
Spliced and strengthened,
Not to enslave,
But nourish.
To carry iron where the soil is bare,
To hold drought in their skins,
To feed the hungry when the rains do not come.
Still—
Even these must be planted thoughtfully,
Not for empires,
But as offerings.
This too is sacred—
The wisdom of limits,
The right to choose.
And in this balance, abundance remains.
So now we offer up thanks—
For this beautiful connection.
For the story within every seed,
For the promise not forgotten.
A circle of life,
Now fully remembered,
Unbroken.
We feast on memory,
We feast on hope.
Our grandmothers knew this,
Our grandfathers too,
The children dancing barefoot across the harvest rows—
They knew nothing of waste,
Only a seed in disguise.
Our children will know too—
We laugh and pray,
Our hard work paid off.
We clap our hands,
We stomp our feet.
We sing to the soil.
We sing to the sun.
We sing to the rain,
And the seeds—
Now reborn.
Now full of awe,
Let us give,
Let us feast,
Let us be merry—
Giving thanks to Gaia,
Womb of all wombs,
Mother of seeds and stars,
Of you and me.
For every fruit, every seed,
Every scrap turned sacred—
Is the womb of tomorrow.