Planting Seeds While the World Burns

Lessons from the Garden

Last weekend, my wife and I planted vegetable seeds.

Tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, beans. Our kitchen floor and our fingers ended up covered in dirt, and for the rest of the afternoon, we smelled like potting soil.

Meanwhile, the world feels like it’s been set on fire.

I don’t mean that metaphorically, although I wish I did. The climate crisis is accelerating, and there seems to be more fires than ever. But this is a nonprofit newsletter and - well - we’re all under attack. Universities are being financially carpet-bombed, my friends in the sector are burning out, and all around us, the people and systems built to guide us forward seem to be unraveling before our eyes.

It’s tempting to throw your hands up. To doom scroll. To despair. I’ve done my fair share of all three (especially the doom scrolling. I’m wicked good at that.)

But this weekend, my wife and I did what we always do in April: we planted seeds. Not because it was the practical thing to do. Honestly, a part of me felt absurd doing it. How are ten raised beds in a Maine yard even relevant when we have a toxic narcissist President auditioning for a new reality show called “Fascists got Talent”?

But here’s the thing: planting seeds felt good

Because when everything feels like it’s spinning, you go back to what you know. What you can control. And in the case of planting seeds: We went back to something we can reliably and enthusiastically look forward to.

This is the lesson that all of us in the nonprofit and philanthropic sector would do well to remember right now. Amid all the noise—the tech promises, the AI solutions, the hot takes, the well-funded convenings with hors d’oeuvres and custom lanyards—it’s easy to forget that our work is still very much about planting seeds and investing in the people and places that matter to you.

And let’s be honest: peppers and tomatoes aren’t going to fix systemic inequality or reverse climate collapse. But it really is something delightful to look forward to. And planting those seeds gave me more clarity, energy, and purpose than I expected. It reminded me that not everything is broken and that joy still exists.

So if you’re overwhelmed, disillusioned, exhausted by the constant barrage of crises—good, that means you’re awake. But don’t let that awareness turn to apathy. Let it turn into something real.

Plant something. Build something. Call someone. Be useful.

Because even when the world feels like its coming apart at the seams, there are still seeds worth planting.