I remember being little and my grandpa showing me how to
grow sprouts in the windowsill of their old house. A small plate, paper towel
folded in half wet from tap water, and the small seeds inside the fold. It
wouldn’t take long for the seeds to sprout in the sun shining through the
window. I watched with amazement how something we created together would grow
and eventually be tall enough to cut with scissors and ready to be eaten. My
grandpa put in on an open faced sandwich for me and it is still one of my
favourite things to eat. The smell of sprouts still remind me of being there.
I came to think of that now as all the buds are bursting and
the cycle of the seasons pushes through all our damage and darkness to display
its yearly spectrum of greens. How inspiring to have to go through so much
death and rubble and cold dark days and still, year after year be able to fill
vast empty spaces with so much life. Blowing the minds of millions and millions
in the most enlightening art show of the year.
I hope that somewhere there is a little bean sprout growing
in me, breaking through the darkness and starting a new cycle of its own.
