I nominate this past summer as one of the best ever. Sure we had a string of 95-plus degree days, and even had a few register over 100. But just think how many days we had in the mid-80s, and how much timely rain we received. All of this contributed to a banner year for local gardens.
I grew the biggest tomatoes ever, and had terrific yields of squash, cucumbers and eggplant. My pepper crop earned a personal best, with loads of luscious red bell peppers custom-designed for stuffing with hamburger, rice and homemade tomato sauce. We freeze these gifts of summer sunlight for meals during the long, dark winter months.
I raised cherry tomatoes this year, and they are definitely the gift that keeps giving. Despite our best attempts to eat as many as we could and donate the rest to family and friends, I'll bet that the bulk of the crop fell to the ground unpicked, a testimony to nature's abundance. If left too long on the vine, the tomatoes literally burst their thin membranes, their seeds covering the skin and ground. This got me thinking.
The average cherry tomato has anywhere from 25 to 40 seeds. We all know that there is one tomato plant in each seed, but how many tomatoes are in that one plant, and then how many potential plants in all of the seeds it will produce? In a variation on a theme, televangelist Robert H. Schuler once wrote, "Anyone can count the seeds in an apple, but only God can count the number of apples in a seed."
Whether you call the author of such abundant life God, Mother Nature or the Cosmos, there is no denying this Power's reckless extravagance, bordering on wastefulness. The operative and eternal question must always be, "Why give a fruit one seed when 30 or 40 would be so much better?" You can't find a more beneficial insurance policy that's designed to guarantee the next generation of plants or trees.
We tend to bless this natural law of abundance when it comes to our gardens, but curse it when our lawns sprout myriad dandelions. That's because these yellow flowers on slender stalks seemingly evolve overnight into puffy cluster bombs of seeds, triggered by the slightest breeze.
This profusion of nature is abetted by the wind, but also by the critters in our environment. When we first moved into our house, I asked a fellow who was doing some yard work for me who he thought planted the aged trees in our hedgerow — wild cherry and sassafras, an ancient apple, a maple, and a few scraggly mulberries. He laughed and said simply, "The birds." He guessed that throughout the hedgerow I'd find old locust fence posts and barbed wire, and he was proven right. Years ago the birds ate some berries, cherries and apple seeds, sat on the wire, and let nature take its course. And the story continues. If you look carefully as you walk around our property, you will find rogue basil, lavender and even asparagus plants, as well as small oak trees — these courtesy of the squirrels.
The Great Provider is certainly no miser. At night if you look skyward and the neighbor hasn't left his outdoor spotlights on, you can see another incredible example of the lavish and extravagant gifts of nature. A dense canopy of stars arches and twinkles above, cousins of our own sun. But here's what's special and should make you think. Despite the proven profligacy of our natural environment, there's only one of us — one Earth. In the vastness of space, our closest twin is a whopping 1,400 light years away and has just been spotted by NASA's Kepler space telescope. This new planet, Kepler-452b, orbits a sun-like star at about the same distance as we circle the sun. Of course, we don't know if there is any life there. Odds are we have the monopoly on that franchise.
So, what's the takeaway? Are there any life lessons in all of this talk of nature's plenitude? How might it impact us? Perhaps the answer lies in what best-selling author Dr. Steve Maraboli suggested we do: "Plant seeds of happiness, hope, success and love; it will all come back to you in abundance. This is the law of nature."
Frank Batavick writes from Westminster. His column appears Fridays. Email him at fjbatavick@gmail.com.
