The old farmer threw seeds over the dark soil. His grandson walked behind him carrying a wooden bucket that was as big as him.
"Grandfather," the boy said, "how do you know which seeds are going to grow?"
The old man smiled a little and slowed down.
"You do not," he said.
The boy looked confused. "Then what is the point of throwing them?" he asked.
The farmer bent down. Put a seed in the ground.
"Everything we do sends something out into the world," he said. "We say things, we remember things, we get angry, we are kind, we have ideas. We do not usually get to choose where these things go; we only get to choose if we let them out or keep them inside."
The wind blew gently through the fields around them.
"Some seeds dont," the old man said. "Some get washed away by storms before they even get to see the sun... Some grow in places that seem impossible."
The boy looked out at all the rows of soil that lead towards horizen.
The farmer laughed.
"Being creative is like that too," he said. "Writing, making art, dreaming, and even the small things we try to do are like seeds that we throw out into a world that we are not sure about. Most of the time nobody pays attention to them. Sometimes they take root in a place that we did not expect."
For a while, both remained silent. Then the old man threw some seeds into the ground.
"Maybe that reason is enough," he said.
The boy watched as the small seeds disappeared into the soil. How something so small could someday turn into a whole forest.
The farmer recognized that look. It's the same one he had when he was a kid.
"Even big forests start with things small enough to be stepped on," he said.
Thanks for reading.
