Help, I am down here

It was the third winter. The tiny seed of the maple tree had waited a long time. Years had passed, and the opportunity to sprout had never come. The drought had come, and the rain was sparse.
The seed had heard many stories—stories of other seeds that became mighty trees, of times when rain fell for days. But it had never seen the rain itself.

The roots of the nearby trees had become dry and weak. It had seen many seeds die. The coming spring was its last chance. It had to rise above the soil and reach for the sky or become one with the soil forever.
The yearning to see the sky burned in its heart. It whispered to itself, "Maybe this year, the rain will come. Winter is not over yet." Lost in its thoughts, it suddenly smelled the damp earth. It was as if the sky had heard its prayer. The rain had begun to fall. Moisture was clearly felt in the surface layers of the soil. Joy surged within. The maple seed felt warm inside and eagerly said, "Yes, yes, the rain has come. This spring, I will sprout."
A slight fear took hold of the hopeful seed. Was it ready to sprout? Did it have the strength to break through the soil? The tiny seed longed for a companion to share this difficult journey, someone to give it strength in its solitude. But even as fear gripped its heart, the seed refused to let that fear stand in the way of its growth. It was determined and said to itself, "Yes, I am ready. I can do this. I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. Doubt is the enemy of hope. I must not doubt myself. The first raindrop I touch, I will sprout."
Hours passed, but the moisture didn’t reach the maple seedling. The upper layers started to dry up. The rain stopped. Its last chance was slipping away. It felt the rush of fear in its veins. Thoughts spun rapidly in its mind: "Why did the rain stop? Why am I stuck here in the depths of the soil? Why didn’t the rain reach me? Now, I am on the brink of death."

Fear grew within it like a towering tree, its branches stretching into anger, hatred, envy, and helplessness, suffocating both mind and body. There seemed to be no solution. No help was coming. The soil that should have supported the light-seeking seed’s roots was now breaking apart its shell. It needed to escape. It needed to save itself. Maybe there was water in the higher layers.
"Do not be afraid," it told itself. "Sprout. You must grow."
The hopeful seed gathered all its strength. Breaking through the tough, dry soil was painful, but the fear of death was much greater.
It fought for days and nights. Half-dead, its fragile stem continued to rise, and small roots began to form. It was still far from the surface.
Meanwhile, things took a turn for the worse. Its roots were desperately searching for water, and the tiny leaves that were supposed to rise from the soil trembled, longing for the sunlight. Pain surged through its thin, fragile stem. It screamed, "I don’t want to die. Help! Help! I’m down here. Help me!"
Suddenly, the sound of thunder reached its ears. It seemed as though the young sprout had survived, and its heart calmed down. Then, a voice was heard. A nearby shrub that had seen its suffering said, "Hey, little maple, why are you trying to sprout now? It’s still not spring." The seed replied, "I want to stay alive. There’s no way down there. I was stuck in that darkness. I want to see the lights"
The shrub, with a mocking tone, said, "It's not much better here, either. It’s still winter. Your leaves will freeze. What a foolish thing you’ve done!"
The maple grew angry and shouted, "If the roots of great trees didn’t spread so far, I would have reached the water. All the seeds there have died."
The shrub, with a tone of disdain, replied, "Not all seeds are meant to become trees, you foolish one."
The lost sprout fell silent. It turned inward. Had it failed? Had it, in its struggle to escape death, led itself to death? If it went higher, its leaves would freeze. If it stayed, its seed reserves would run out, and it would soon die.
The rain began to fall once more. For the first time, the weary sprout felt the touch of water, a pleasant touch. Yet, deep down, it knew that trying again would be in vain. Everything was bitter and ruthless. It shouted, "Damn me! Damn the rain that didn’t fall for so long, damn the rain that came too late, damn everything that made me sprout too soon." Its screams were lost in the sound of the thunder and the rain. The words of the shrub repeated constantly in its mind: "Not all seeds are meant to become trees."
The night was cold and inevitable. The rain continued until morning. Again, it raised its stem. It didn’t know why. It seemed the only goal left in life was to reach its leaves to the sunlight before they froze.
In a few days, the restless sprout tried to reach the surface, the rain didn’t stop. The mud made its movement easier, but it weakened its roots. Finally, it reached the surface and looked around; the earth was frozen, no tree had leaves, and the sun was absent. Its leaves were slowly freezing and turning black. Its roots had begun to rot. The fledgling sapling remembered the past—how many times it had imagined sprouting and basking in the sun. It was supposed to be a sturdy, tall tree, making friends with other trees, friends who would encourage it to rise higher toward the sky. But now, in this cold, muddy ground, in this dark forest, it was dying. It no longer feared death; it had experienced its worst form. It waited for the sun. It no longer struggled and said to itself, if I wasn’t meant to become a tree, why was I created?
A breeze blew. The clouds parted, and for the first time, it saw the sun. The beauty of the sun was soothing. The wandering seed had passed through the darkness to reach the light, and now, in its final moments, with its black, frozen leaves, it touched the sun. The shrub looked at it and the last words of the maple echoed: "I wish I had touched the sun every day."
Years later… The soil nourished itself with the warmth of the sun. It was the beating heart of nature, carrying water to the roots and holding the fragile seeds in its loving embrace. It was the keeper of ancient maples, the home of countless creatures, big and small.

As the Rich soil basked in the sun’s gentle touch, a faint cry reached its depths. A tiny, fragile maple seed was calling out, ‘Help, I am down here!’

Memories, both bitter and sweet, surfaced. The soil smiled. It knew this voice well—it had heard it many times before. The generous soil opened its embrace, welcoming the little seed.

This nurturing soil was made of all the seeds that never became trees, all the sprouts that never reached the sky. It was the Gaia.

From my heart to yours,
Hanieh – A seeker, a guide, a lover of Persian poetry and presence