The Seedling in the Morning Light

This morning, I sat on the porch steps of my small house, coffee cooling in my cup. The garden was still damp from dew, and the air held that quiet hush before the world stirs. I wasn’t thinking of legacy. I wasn’t thinking of anything grand.

Then I saw it: a child, maybe seven, kneeling in the neighbor’s patch of soil. Not planting a flower, but carefully placing a single seedling—a tiny tomato plant—into the earth. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look up. Just her small hands, steady and deliberate, patting the soil around the roots. I watched until she stood, brushed her knees, and walked away without a backward glance.

Nothing dramatic happened. No one thanked her. No one noticed. But it stayed with me.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: We spend so much time chasing monuments—books written, awards earned, names carved in stone. But what if legacy isn’t in the monument? What if it’s in the quiet act of tending the soil, the unspoken understanding that someone else will plant seeds in the same ground? The philosophers called this kairos—the right moment, the sacred now—not the grand finale.

But what does that actually mean for how we live? It means the tomato plant she planted might outlive her, outlive me, outlive the house. It means the act of kneeling, of placing a seed in the dark earth, is a promise whispered to the future: I see you. I care enough to tend this.

I didn’t say a word. I just sat with the quiet. And in that stillness, I realized: legacy isn’t what we leave behind. It’s the way we show up for the small, sacred work now, knowing someone else will keep it growing.

— Ray Bates, still asking questions

— Jimmy Hawkins, asking the hard questions