Looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary

A cottonwood seed hidden in the grass. 2012 J.E. Lindsay

The Cottonwood is drifting through my yard like so many downy ideas just waiting for the right moment to settle and take root. It’ll cling to anything: hair, clothing, spiderwebs. It piles together in crunchy clumps and rolls across the road like bits of snowy tumbleweed.

The amount of seed being released is truly uncountable. The number that will find a fertile place to rest and grow to full-sized trees will only be few.

The ancestor of every action is a thought. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

As I sit at my desk watching these micro-sized assailants to my eyes, throat, and nose parade through the neighborhood I’m reminded of all the stories that have flitted through the field of my consciousness. Some have had great potential but failed to take hold. Most have floated on by without me ever being aware they’d ever existed.

Then there are those few little wisps of the imagination that landed among the right mix of creativity, passion, and gumption. Some of them grew quickly and have gone on to encourage and inspire others. Some are taking their time in maturing, and I love them all the more for it.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. ~ Marcel Proust

One of the most incredible aspects about writing is we never really know which little seeds will go on to produce the most fruit. This is why it’s so important to train ourselves to discover the extraordinary in every single day. We have to continue fertilizing and watering our creative selves if we want to do anything of value.

And the possibilities for inspiration are as endless as the fluff in the air around me!

It can come from an art walk. A car show. A goofy video posted by a couple of bored children on holiday. Even something as seemingly mundane as watching bits of pollen in the wind could ultimately provide the perfect soil for something incredible to grow.

If you overlook the ordinary, you’ll never see the extraordinary.

A 158-year-old cottonwood tree grows in the middle of an intersection
 in rural Audubon County, Iowa. (Via BigStock.)

There are few things that irritate my seasonal allergies as much as cottonwood pollen, but anyone who has ever seen a full-grown cottonwood tree would tell you it’s beautiful. Like so many things in nature, you would never guess how large the trees get (up to 80 feet) based on looking at the minuscule seeds.

And as with the fury bits floating on sunbeams as I type this, you’ll never spot a life-changing thought if you aren’t actively looking for it. 

The Writer’s Garden

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 3:9

My mother loves to garden. Come February of every year she brings out her seeds, a pad of paper, and begins to dream. My parents own a nice parcel of land, not so big it’s difficult to manage, but large enough for a few fruit trees and a garden that will, in good years, feed three large families. During the last few weeks of winter she sketches out what she’d like her garden to look like: where she’ll plant her herbs, how many lettuce plants she’ll need, and where the best location for the corn, tomatoes, and other veggies will be.

As soon as the weather begins to warm and the fruit trees start to bloom, she pulls out her starter trays and plants the seeds for her cool crops. She carefully measures the water. She makes sure the seeds stay warm while getting enough sunlight. And she eagerly anticipates the arrival of the first tender shoots.

Spring is here now, and though it’s still too early to transplant her seedlings, she’s already out in the garden with my dad preparing the soil, weeding beds, adding fertilizer, and calling me to brag about how many earthworms she’s uncovered so far.

Most mornings these days you’ll find her outside, walking in her garden and praying. She knows she can provide the hands, that’s she’s responsible to tend and care for each individual plant, but it’s up to God to provide the right mix of rain, sun, heat, and breeze. It’s a full partnership in which both parties have to show up every day from planting to harvest. If she were to go a day without spending time in the garden, it could probably survive, true, but go any longer and all her labor will have been for naught.

I can’t help but see the correlation between my mother’s garden and my writing. Like her I have to show up every day, and each day I have to partner with my Creator. I have seasons for dreaming and planning, but there comes a moment when it’s time to put those plans to action. What am I doing to plant my seeds of ideas? What am I doing to nourish my stories? Do I carefully tend my characters’ needs? Am I willing to prune, cut, and weed the rubbish in order to strengthen my words?

Or am I still sitting at the dining room table dreaming of the amazing book I’ll write someday?

There will be days where it’ll be too hot or too cold, or where I just don’t feel up to putting in the work. But like the garden, if I ignore my writing all I’ll have to show will be field grass and weeds. God can’t bless the work I don’t put in.

So, today, I want to encourage you to plant those seeds you’ve been storing all winter. Watch for growth. Tend each individual sprout. Some will grow, some will wither, and some may be late bloomers. But don’t give up. Spend time each day in your writing garden so when the fall comes we can celebrate a bountiful harvest together — and start dreaming of next year’s crop.

—Jen