Sowing a Future We Can't Predict: Planting Hope in a Hopeless World

It’s early August. The garlic and shallots have been harvested and cured. The lettuce, spinach, and cilantro have all bolted, their tender leaves turned bitter and gone to seed. The garden is caught in that mid-summer lull, a quiet pause where there’s finally space for succession planting.

I have a bed to fill, gazing up at me in silent question: “What comes next?”

Some choices feel easy: spinach, lettuce, carrots, peas. These quick growers are dependable bets — low risk, short season, familiar friends.

Others? Arugula, radishes, and kale grow well this time of year. They’re also quick and easy to grow, but I often don’t bother. Not because I dislike them, but I just don’t eat them enough to dedicate an entire row. I want to plant things I’ll actually use.

And so I roll the dice: Brussels sprouts. I know how steeply the odds are stacked against me. I’ve tried a handful of times. Despite doing my homework and following every piece of advice I could find, I’ve never truly cracked their code. I can hear you laughing at me already for even considering planting them. And honestly, I’ll probably be laughing at myself too in a couple months.

But then I also remember harvesting tomatoes on Halloween a few years ago.

Stranger things have been known to happen. Perhaps increasingly so every year as our climate continues to change. But I have space, and I have hope.

Gardening has never had a reliable calendar. It’s different every year. The weather shifts. The soil surprises.

In my early years of gardening, I was a big rule follower. I carefully studied all there was to know about each plant. I took notes on days-to-maturity, hardiness, spacing, companion plants, 5-year crop rotation. It did lead to successes, but I wasn’t truly learning gardening. I was learning facts and statistics. Over time, experience turned knowledge into wisdom, and from that wisdom I gradually began to garden more intuitively. This plant family likes firmer soil, that one wants more nitrogen, bigger seeds tend to like being planted deeper than tiny ones. As I planted, rather than read the packet and pull out a measuring tape, I began to close my eyes and imagine what that plant is like at maturity to determine how much space it wanted, and who it wouldn’t mind growing near.

Experienced gardeners learn to roll with the punches — to listen to the subtle cues of plants, the feel of the earth, the whisper of the wind. To become students of the living world instead of rigid rule-followers.

And with each turning season I, too, have learned to listen.

There was the rogue chicken incident this spring when Olive broke in and tore through weeks of careful planting, scattering seedlings like confetti. Then just weeks later, after carefully replacing and replanting, my irrigation line quietly broke without bothering to tell me just as the new sprouts desperately needed water. Endless lessons hide within mistakes, and in the resilience it takes to face them.

Failure teaches us more than success ever can. Every loss, every torn-up bed, every wilted leaf is part of the story in my slow, imperfect education.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder: What if I’m pouring energy, time, and hope into something that will simply fail? That another setback I couldn’t predict or control will undo everything?

The world feels so heavy with those questions right now. The political climate, the overwhelming noise of injustice, the exhaustion of fighting battles that seem larger than ourselves. I feel that too — a weighted sense of defeat. Perhaps that sense of resignation to inevitable tyranny is a shield, but it’s also a filter. I’m not disengaging. I’m adapting. I’m reclaiming my agency in a world that often feels like it wants to take it away.

I read the news each day and get overwhelmed with feelings of both anger and hopelessness. But instead of arguing or railing, I choose quiet action. My garden is one of those actions. I keep planting because I can. Because I still have some say in the shape of my days.

Each seed is an act of hope, or of defiance. Maybe both. Not in the loud, performative way. But in the way you wake up and choose to participate in life again, even when you’re unsure it matters. It is a claim that you will thrive by persistence and care, even in an imperfect world.

There is something deeply grounding in this act of planting — the joy not just in the hope of a harvest, but in the process itself.

I’m not so much choosing what to plant this month. I am choosing to plant. Season upon season, I choose hope.

On the day I planted those seeds, I felt the sun warming my back.
I stretched my arms across the warm soil, full of promise.
I pounded trellises into the soil, my heart pounding with it.
I listened to music I love, and spent time with the chickens.

If nothing else grows, even if frost comes early, even if the Brussels sprouts flop again, that afternoon still happened. I still lived it. Fully, intentionally, gratefully.

And sometimes, there are surprises.

I’ll probably ask myself those whispered questions again every season. What if it is too late? What if the new irrigation line fails? What if the seedlings rot in unexpected rain? What if I pour hours of time and effort and care into something that doesn’t give me anything back?

But I still have seeds. And they aren’t doing anything for anyone, sitting in their dark little seed packet caves.

They only have potential once they’re in contact with the earth. Once they feel the damp soil and the sun warming their tiny bodies. Then they have a chance.

It reminds me of how many of us self-sabotage before we’ve even begun. Not just in gardens — in love, in work, in creative projects. The inner voice that whispers: It won’t work. It’s not worth trying. Why even bother? We convince ourselves not to start. We stay dormant.

And sometimes, all it takes is a whisper in the other direction: You may as well.

That’s the whisper I heard when I held an old, forgotten store-bought sweet potato that had started to sprout. I could’ve tossed it in the compost. But I had an empty corner in the garden, and an open moment. So I buried it. Just to see.

It’s thriving now, in spite of me. Green and lush and sprawling across its bed. Accidental sweet potatoes, alongside hopeful Brussels sprouts. Perhaps the weather holds, and one or both make an appearance at my Thanksgiving table. Or not, and that’s okay. I have made peace with unpredictability. We try anyway. We do what we can, and we leave room for growth — of the plants, and of ourselves.

In gardening, and in life, some of what you plant will thrive, and some won’t. But you learn something either way, and you will be better for having tried.

Yes, I still have doubts. It’s human. I worry about the futility of it all. In the garden and in life. I worry about how I spend my time, about putting my energy into things that may never “pay off.” I tend to go all in anyway. When something captures my interest, I chase it fully — imaginatively, optimistically, maybe even naively. And I don’t lose interest easily. I just make choices. I follow what feeds me. I do what makes me feel alive.

Even when the outcome is uncertain.

Gardening has changed me. I started out rigid and rule-bound, meticulously measuring and following instructions down to the letter. But the plants have taught me to trust my instincts, to learn by observing and listening. To embrace the lessons of past failures, and understand that not everything needs to be optimized to be worthwhile. In the garden, yes, and in life.

So, I plant.

Not because I expect certainty or a guaranteed bounty.
Not because the calendar says it’s the “right” time.
Not because I have all the answers.

I planted because something in me whispered: You may as well.
Because it felt good to move my body in rhythm with the world.
Because I had something to give — seeds, time, care.
Because I wanted to say yes to the possibility of something more.

And if I do end up harvesting sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts in November? That’s just the bonus.

I plant because these small seeds of hope sustain me — not just with food, but with a sense of rhythm, continuity, and care. Even when things feel out of my control, this act is mine.

So I press seed to soil, not knowing if it will sprout, not knowing if I’ll get to taste what it becomes.

But I plant it anyway.

And that, I think, is enough.

Love,
Karin (with an eye)

If you enjoyed these moments of surprise and resilience in the garden — from rogue chickens to accidental sweet potatoes — you might like to read [the full story here].