The 6 Stages of Growing From Seed

As loosely studied by one gardener over the course of five or so years

(Read the following in your best David Attenborough voice)

The gardener emerges from the backdoor after a long winter; she is hesitant to shed her outer layers. Her thin, pale skin will need time to strengthen and harden as the weather warms. It has been a long time since she enjoyed the warm sun on her skin.

In her pouch, she carries numerous packets of seeds. These will feed her mentally over the course of the next few months, until warm days are in earnest.  This early in the year, she can’t yet truly garden. But sowing these seeds will do the job, for now.

And so her seed sowing journey begins.

(end David Attenborough impression.)

I think I may have started my seeds too early. I sowed them at the end of March and I put them in my unheated greenhouse, and I’m in zone 6a (cold).  I put a few seed trays on propagation mats. Yes, they all germinated, but have been slow to put on more growth. The weather has been sporadic, a random spray of chilly and warm days. But pretty consistently cold nights, some down to freezing.

My guess is that they’re waiting in earnest for warm weather.  My landscape architect friend says the same. She ought to know, right?

So it’s that, or I failed miserably at something. Like, everyone else (on social media) seems to have such big seedlings? Maybe they’re in warmer regions? Maybe I just need to put on my patience-pants. Maybe I need to move from Chicago to somewhere warm.

Really, there needs to be a seed sowers anonymous group.  I guess it doesn’t need to be anonymous, it just needs to be a support group. It should be zone specific, too. I don’t want to hear about the woes of zone 8 gardeners, I’ve already been one of those. And if I’m being an honest asshole, they have it easy. 

It would feel so validating for a group of us to either: a. collectively agree that it’s the weather slowing down growth or b. confirm that, no, no, it’s me doing something dumb.

If I accurately reflect on the last five or so years of seed sowing, I have to admit there’s a lull period that always happens. The excitement of germination gives way to the painfully slow process of roots putting on growth and waiting for all the fake springs to be done with. It seems only the plants know when the fake springs stop and real spring stays.

And if I accurately reflected on the entire process, I’d see that I’m putting myself through a slow-moving emotional roller coaster. All in all, the ride comes in roughly six stages:

Stage 1: Seed Shopping

The hunt for drugs, I mean seeds, has officially started. Most seed-sowers wait for the seed catalogs to arrive in January. We’ll pore over all options. Ideally ordering all the seeds from one place and avoiding double shipping fees. But inevitably, there’s always one seed we really really really really want but only one place offers it. And we would get all our other seeds from that same place except they charge $2 more per seed packet.  

Do you see the quandary? The agony? The maniacal foraging? It’s so good.

The hunt for seeds, though not as exhilarating as sowing or transplanting, comes with its own rush. The blood coursing through our bodies feels more electric, the vein throbbing on our foreheads swells. It’s a build-up to good stuff and a perfect remedy for the ennui of a dark January day. 

Our wallets may not jubilate when we click ‘buy,’ but we can always rest easy on the bed of laurels that firmly declares, “it’s cheaper than buying these as plants.”

Stage 2: Sowing Glee

OMG WE MADE IT! January and February are behind us.  It’s the end of March. The days are lighter, they’re slightly warmer.  Our impatience will not allow us to wait a couple more weeks to sow.  Even though that’s probably a better tactic in a place like zone 6a. “But the seed packet says to sow 6 weeks before the last frost,” we tell ourselves as we swallow down the second part of that sentence, “ugh, but seed packets are always wrong.”

Whatever, we’re doing it. The average last frost in the area is the beginning of May, six weeks before that is…the end of March!

Commence soil-covered hands. Commence opening the seed packets. Commence being in the fresh air. Commence glee.

Regrets can happen later. Right now, we’re sowing seeds.

Stage 3: Germination High

It’s Mary Poppins floating down on a parrot umbrella + Gandalf’s speech about the gray rain curtain rolling back to reveal a far green country under a swift sunrise + biting into a freshly plucked, sun-baked strawberry + playing hooky + happening upon the exact vintage delight that you didn’t know you needed and seeing the price is completely reasonable.

Obviously I can’t quite put it in words. But adding it all up, I can confirm the Germination High is real and delightful and addictive and, seriously, do NOT count how many times you end up checking on your seeds in a single day. You’ll just embarrass yourself. 

Stage 4: Slow growth crash (currently here)

My current state of affairs.  I will not belabor the point. It sucks. Hurry up, seeds! I am comforted only by the fact that the self-seeded ammi majus is also slow to grow. 

Stage 5: Transplant overwhelm

Finally, true leaves are showing. A patient, non-obsessive person may wait to transplant till several true leaves appear.  That person is not me. And I might as well get a jump on it because March-me sowed so many goddamn seeds. 

So much that I’ll need to order more pots. For me, that comes with the guilt and shame of contributing more plastic to the earth (boo!) + buying on Amazon (hiss!). This adds to the overwhelm.  But really, mostly, it's the hundreds of plants I need to prick out and pot on.

Why did I do this to myself?  Inherently, this is supposed to be a pretty meditative process. But that’s only true if I really actually had time to dedicate to this process.  Life is very life-y and that gets in the way of my seed sowing enjoyment. I end up squeezing in a seed tray here and a seed tray there. 

If I get a chance to sit and transplant for hours and let myself be in the process, I consider myself lucky. Otherwise, I just consider myself overwhelmed. 

It doesn’t help that it feels like another Slow Growth Crash seems to happen after the transplanting. Another norm, but also another ugh. At least I can use fertilizer now.

Stage 6: Aaahhhhh...planting

And this is our reward for riding that slow-moving emotional roller coaster. Let’s bust out our spades and trowels. If you use a knee pad, go grab it, we’ll be out here for a while. All dishes, laundry, bills, cleaning, etc. have been cancelled - I mean they’re still there, but who cares. Because it’s planting time. There’s nothing more important.

My only advice here is don’t forget to enjoy it. Don’t rush through it to get to the damn house tasks.

Why though?

A friend of mine started growing from seed this year. The other day, she told me “I see why you like planting from seed…it’s very addictive.”

I felt seen. I see a lot of people on social media growing from seed, but I don’t know a lot of people in real life who do it. I can think of three or four. 

When we talk through our processes together, I hear so much delight, even when it’s buried under layers of anxious waiting and wondering if it’ll work.  

It’s not that I wish turmoil upon you when I recommended seed sowing. It’s that I wish you turmoil AND joy. It’s really the complete human experience, right? With low stakes. And super high reward.

C’mon, give it a try!