Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed

Host: The morning air was dense with fog, the kind that muffles the world into a whisper. The city was just waking — the sound of vendors, the hum of engines, the smell of fresh bread and burnt coffee drifting through narrow streets. Inside a small urban garden café, plants hung from the ceiling, their leaves still glistening with dew.

Jack sat at a wooden table, his hands stained with soil, a trowel beside his coffee mug. Across from him, Jeeny was kneeling, her fingers gently pressing a seed into a pot of earth, her hair falling like curtains around her face. The light from the window caught the tiny specks of dust in the air, turning them to gold.

Jeeny: “Henry David Thoreau once said — ‘Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed.’”
She looked up, her eyes calm but piercing. “Do you see what he meant, Jack? It’s about hope — the kind that grows even when the soil looks dead.”

Jack: (a dry laugh) “Hope, huh? I see biology, Jeeny. Not faith. A seed grows because it has the right conditions — light, water, time. Not because someone believed in it.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what faith is? Creating those conditions — even when the world tells you it’s useless?”

Host: A bird landed on the window ledge, its feathers slick from the fog, its head tilted as if listening. The smell of wet earth filled the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee and rain.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t water a plant, Jeeny. People do. You can hope all you want, but if the seed is rotten, nothing will grow. That’s how life works. Effort, not expectation.”

Jeeny: “But how do you know a seed is rotten, Jack, unless you try to plant it? That’s the point. Faith doesn’t replace effort — it fuels it. It’s the reason you even bend down to put that seed in the ground.”

Jack: (leans back, arms crossed) “You talk like hope is a strategy. It’s not. It’s a story we tell ourselves when we’re too afraid to face reality. You can’t expect wonders from a seed — not in this world. Not anymore.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then how do you explain the wonders that did happen? Farmers who grew wheat in barren lands. Scientists who revived extinct plants from ancient seeds. Or even a child who learns again to speak after being told he never will. These are all miracles, Jack — not because they defied logic, but because someone had the faith to try.”

Host: The fog outside began to lift, revealing the street below — bicycles, workers, a woman with a basket of flowers. A beam of sunlight broke through, cutting across the room, illuminating the tiny pot between them.

Jack: “You call it a miracle. I call it persistence. People just don’t give up. That’s not faith — that’s survival instinct. You don’t need to believe in the seed; you just need to plant enough of them, and one will eventually grow.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly the beauty of it, Jack! That ‘eventually’ is faith. The belief that something, somewhere, will take root, even if you don’t see it yet. That’s what keeps people going when the soil is cold and the season feels wrong.”

Host: Jack stared at the pot between them — a small mound of soil, no sign of life yet, just dark earth. He rubbed his thumb over the trowel’s handle, his brow furrowed. The clock on the wall ticked — slow, deliberate.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we romanticize this stuff? We talk about seeds and growth like they’re metaphors for life, but sometimes the ground just isn’t meant for anything to grow. Some fields stay barren, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: (her voice trembling, but strong) “Then plant anyway. Because even barren soil remembers the touch of a seed. Maybe it won’t bloom now — maybe not even in your lifetime — but it changes something. Faith isn’t about the harvest, Jack. It’s about the attempt.”

Host: Her words lingered, floating between them like dust in the light. The city noise began to rise outside — the sound of wheels, voices, movement — but inside the café, time felt still.

Jack: “You sound like my grandfather,” he said after a long pause. “He used to plant trees he’d never see grow. Oaks. Said they were for the future. I used to laugh at him. Told him he’d be dead before they ever cast shade.”
(a small smile) “Now I walk past that old house, and those trees are huge. They outlived him. They outlived me, in a way.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand, Jack. That’s what Thoreau meant — it’s not about seeing the result, but about believing the seed has the potential. It’s a kind of moral patience. You can’t rush growth, but you can believe in it.”

Jack: “Maybe I just have a hard time believing in anything I can’t measure.”

Jeeny: “Then measure what you can — the effort, the care, the time you put into it. That’s where the real wonder lives. Not in the miracle itself, but in the hands that refuse to stop sowing.”

Host: A moment of quiet settled. The sunlight now bathed the table, warming the soil in the pot. A tiny crack appeared on the surface, so small it might have been missed — but Jeeny saw it. She smiled, her eyes soft with that quiet, unshakable faith.

Jeeny: “Look.”

Jack leaned in, his shadow falling over the pot. There it was — the faintest hint of green, pushing through, defying the weight of earth. He exhaled, almost a laugh, but softer — like relief.

Jack: “So that’s your proof, huh?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s the response.”

Jack: (quietly) “It’s… smaller than I expected.”

Jeeny: “Everything real starts small. Even faith.”

Host: The morning fog had completely lifted now. Outside, the city was alive — vibrant, moving, breathing. But inside that tiny garden café, two souls sat in silence, watching the first sprout of a seed they had both, in their own way, believed in.

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe the world doesn’t need miracles — just people who still plant them.”

Jeeny: “That’s all faith ever was, Jack. Not certainty — just the courage to begin.”

Host: A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of earth and new life. The seedling trembled slightly, but it stood — fragile, defiant, alive.

And as the sunlight spread across their faces, the camera of the world seemed to pull back, revealing the whole garden — hundreds of pots, thousands of tiny green beginnings, each a silent declaration:

That to believe in a seed is to believe in the possibility of wonder — even when nothing has yet grown.