The carrots in the cold bed garden are sprouted and at the stage where shoots differentiate into the ferny stalk we recognize and stop yanking out as another annoying weed.
Poke a seed into the ground when it’s cold, dark, deluged with rain and there’s a reluctant nagging doubt spring will ever arrive.
Imagine the seed becoming a carrot. Or a beet. Or an onion. We have no guarantee of what’s transpiring beneath the surface of the soil while we wait for germination to construct the end result.
Intention is rather like a carrot.
The smallest kernel of an idea or desire, sown in the gloom of uncertainty where we can’t know for sure anything is happening. Time. Meditation and prayer. Then a tendril of manifestation so small we could mistake it for random coincidence. Patience. A gradual recognition of stirrings for the next step and glimpses of a propitious design. Intention aligned with universal movement and fruition.