The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked

Host: The field stretched wide beneath the morning light — mist coiled around the roots of old oak trees, and the air smelled of wet earth and beginnings. The sun was slow to rise, its first rays spilling across the golden stalks of wild grass, lighting the dew like scattered stars.

The ground was alive — tiny shoots breaking through the dark soil, trembling in the quiet wind. It was the kind of dawn that feels ancient, the kind that reminds the world that every ending is secretly an opening.

In the middle of it all stood Jack, boots caked with mud, holding a single seed between his fingers. Jeeny crouched beside him, her hands tracing the damp soil. Her expression was soft — a reverence in her eyes that belonged more to prayer than conversation.

For a long time, neither spoke. The earth itself seemed to be breathing, waiting.

Jeeny: quietly, almost as if afraid to disturb the air “Hal Borland once said, ‘The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.’”
She looked up at him. “Isn’t that beautiful? That all of creation starts small — too small for logic to measure, too mysterious for certainty to explain.”

Jack: turning the seed in his palm “Yeah. It’s funny — people talk about beginnings like they’re explosions. But they’re really whispers.”

Host: The light touched his face, half in shadow, half in warmth. The seed gleamed faintly in his rough fingers, as if it held a quiet fire.

Jeeny: “Borland was right. The seed holds everything — life, death, renewal — and yet we can’t understand it. We just trust it.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Faith over reason, huh? Sounds like a dangerous philosophy.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Only to people who think control is the same thing as wisdom.”

Host: A bird called out somewhere in the distance — a long, lonely note, like the world itself remembering something.

Jack: “You really believe in that? That the seed knows something we don’t?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Look at it — it’s the purest kind of knowing. It doesn’t need proof, or language, or doubt. It just becomes what it’s meant to be. We’re the ones who complicate it with questions.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. We’ve built whole civilizations trying to outthink the soil.”

Jeeny: “And the soil just keeps forgiving us — keeps growing things anyway.”

Host: The wind stirred, rippling through the tall grass, whispering through the leaves like ancient breath.

Jack: “So you think beginnings need faith?”

Jeeny: “Everything does. Every step, every love, every act of creation. Reason can only take you to the edge — it can’t make you plant the seed.”

Jack: after a pause “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to make me plant trees in the backyard. I hated it. I didn’t understand the point. He’d just say, ‘One day, you’ll sit in their shade.’”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “Yeah. Years later. After he died. And the strangest thing — sitting under them felt like he was still there. Like his faith had outlived him.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s what seeds are, Jack. They’re proof that faith can exist beyond the hand that plants it.”

Host: The camera would linger on the soil, the tiny seed resting in his palm — so small it could be mistaken for nothing at all, and yet, within it, the blueprint of forests.

Jack: “You ever think about how fragile beginnings are? How easy it is to crush one before it even starts?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s what makes them sacred. You have to kneel to start them — and that humility is part of the process.”

Jack: half-smiling “You make planting sound like prayer.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every act of faith is a seed in disguise.”

Host: The sunlight broke fully through the clouds now, turning the field to fire — gold light burning through green life.

Jeeny: “You know what Borland understood? That wisdom isn’t knowing how things end. It’s trusting how they begin.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And knowing when to get out of the way.”

Jeeny: grinning “Exactly.”

Host: He crouched then, pressing the seed gently into the earth. The soil closed around it — dark, quiet, eternal.

Jack: “Seems so small.”

Jeeny: “So does every miracle, at first.”

Host: The wind stilled. The world held its breath. The seed was buried now, unseen — but its promise lingered in the air, bright as sunlight, deep as silence.

Jack wiped his hands on his jeans, standing. “You know,” he said softly, “maybe faith isn’t about believing everything will work out. Maybe it’s about planting anyway — even when you don’t know if it will.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only kind of faith that means anything.”

Host: She looked up at him, eyes warm. “And the only kind of wisdom worth having is the one that knows when to kneel and let the earth take over.”

Jack: “So the universe begins with a gesture — one small act of surrender.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The seed doesn’t need to understand the tree. It just trusts the light.”

Host: The camera would pull back slowly — two figures standing in the morning field, surrounded by miles of quiet possibility. The earth gleamed wet and new beneath them, the horizon wide, patient, eternal.

And as the scene dissolved into the slow brightness of day, Hal Borland’s words would echo through the wind — ancient, steady, like the whisper of the soil itself:

“The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed. There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.”

Because wisdom is not found in knowing —
but in trusting.

Beginnings are the universe’s quiet gamble,
where reason hesitates
and faith plants.

To plant is to believe
that tomorrow deserves a chance to grow,
that something unseen
can still find its way to light.

And so the seed —
small, silent, buried —
becomes the oldest teacher of all:
that every act of creation
is also an act of faith.