I'm back on this faith kick; maybe I'm trying to talk myself into having some.
I wish I were a plant. The nasturtium, the comfrey, the cucumber, the echinacea--they don't wonder what to do with all of this loam, with these rains, this sun. They just...grow. I have more faith in those seeds than I do in the hand that plants them, that's for sure.
Actually, they probably do, too.
And maybe plants don't need faith because they don't process like we do (lucky plants); they just live and communicate and thrive. Or not. I've spent enough of my life around them--growing and grown, drying and fresh, as tea or tincture, as seeds, as medicine, as friends, and as food--that I know this. I know they have no worries about their ability to do the job they were called to do, nor does their sacrifice burden them. It's a built-in calling and, man, do I envy that. I guess what I crave is that kind of birthright, that kind of certainty, that kind of focus.
Okay, then, settled. Next life: a perennial nettle, living in early spring, early fall, flowering all summer, and sleeping through the winter.