To plant a mustard seed is an act of deliberate humility. You do not need a plow or a team of oxen; a simple scratch in the earth will do. Press the seed into the soil—no deeper than the first knuckle. Cover it lightly. The soil should be ordinary, even poor. Mustard is not a demanding tenant. It asks for little: a sliver of darkness, a whisper of moisture, a sliver of sun.
What emerges is a testament to proportion. From the smallest beginning comes the most audacious growth. The stem thickens. The leaves broaden into rough, sandpapery circles. Within weeks, the seedling becomes a bush. Within months, if left unchecked, it becomes a small, sprawling tree—a haven for insects, a beacon of yellow flowers that shimmer like a second sun. planting mustard seeds
The mustard seed is a paradox. Hold it between thumb and forefinger, and you will barely feel its weight. It is a speck, a dust mote, a punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence. By all accounts, it is insignificant. Yet within that tiny, dormant vessel lies a quiet, explosive ambition. To plant a mustard seed is an act of deliberate humility
Then, you wait.