sprouts - fragrant herbs and acorns

Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains alone - nothing but a seed. But if it dies, it sprouts and produces much fruit.
Isn’t it a paradox that says something must die in order to live? A volunteer death, at that. There are several oak trees around our house. This fall, the one right by my window dropped hundreds of acorns. At night, when a gentle breeze would blow through the yard, it sounded like there was hail outside. Acorns hitting branches as they fell - falling onto the deck, the A/C unit. There were so many acorns that even the squirrels lost interest. There were so many under my office window on the side of the house that you had to shuffle your feet to walk down the hill to keep from stepping on them and riding them down the hill.
A couple weeks ago, I went out there to see if I could find one that had not rotted yet. I couldn’t. But I noticed something interesting. All the acorns that had fallen in plain view, out in the open for everyone to see, had been trampled, squashed, kicked around, etc. But the ones that had fallen out of the way, in hidden corners and behind bushes, had sprouted their single root downward and grabbed at the soil. Under the window, I found dozens hidden by the A/C, all laying on top of the ground, split open and rotten. When I tried to pick them up, they didn’t move. I lifted the edge and noticed that every one of them had sent out a single, downward tentacle out of its rotten shell and into the ground. Dead acorn – living tree.
On my way to Austin last week, I thought about how exactly a year ago, to the week, we felt ourselves dropped into the hopper and broadcast. Frankly, it was painful. Flung in all directions. Landing in unfamiliar soil, alone. It is painful to lie there in the dirt, hoping not to be trampled, wondering if your sprout will take root.
Last week, driving to Texas, I felt as if I were headed off to help pile some dirt around a sprouting acorn like I’d just seen outside my window. The thoughts of this acorn made me realize the sprouts I’ve felt as this past semester came to a close on a new class I’d never taught before – new hearts I’d seen open that very morning.
Seeds are seasonal. Buds are set on trees even as the dead leaves fall. But they don’t grow until spring. It’s not only painful to die, but you also have to lie there on the ground, wondering, praying, waiting to sprout.
Then, when you think you’ve been forgotten, the seasons change and someone drops a little water, sings a song that they didn’t know before, from a place they didn’t know existed, someone stops by and paints your kitchen.
Makes you want to turn over a new leaf. Sing a new song. Lay it all down and start again. Die and be reborn. Makes you want to carve a phoenix into your bark.