Growing in the Shade
For the seed-keepers
In a recent article about Archetypes of Resistance, Jungian Psychotherapist
Satya Doyle Byock wrote about many archetypes that I resonate with and have been trained to be in times of crisis. Healer. Cook. Neighbor. Underground Guide. Soul Tender. It’s a beautiful, insightful, clarifying, and deeply human list. It’s a list that I believe can help us all find our place and take it during these times.One archetype both surprised me and struck me as so much of what I feel called to right now: The Seed Keeper:
The Seed Keeper: Some people are oriented to fighting back in the moment, and others are thinking far into the future, anticipating what will be destroyed and protecting what needs to be protected. The Seed Keeper may be saving actual seeds for future harvest, or they may be acting like seeds themselves, going deep underground—or away from society—to protect knowledge, artifacts, or life for another time. They tried to bury us, they didn't know we were seeds. Examples: Rahibai Soma Popere, The Indigenous Seed Keepers Network, The Altadena Seed Library, Yoda.
I confess that as right and beautiful as this archetype seems to me, I’m noticing that it is somewhat at odds with a lot that we learn about righteous resistance in times of authoritarian rule, forms of resistance that require incredible courage. I think many of us have images of people resisting loudly, boldly, with a kind of fiery urgency. But in the days following the election, what surprised me most was that it wasn’t the expected images of protest or action that came to me. Instead, it was an ancestor I never knew in life, but who has shaped my life greatly; my great aunt Carina.
Carina lived in the forest during the war in Germany. There is a lot I don’t know about her during this phase of her life. I know that before the war during the Weimar era she was a beloved actress who was known for bravely doing her own stunts. She was brave and outspoken, and I always understood that if she had remained in the public eye, she would have probably become a political prisoner and likely would have died.
I genuinely don’t know if Carina did anything material to resist or undermine the nazi rule. I would like to think that she contributed in some way to the safety and survival of those targeted by nazis, especially as the other ancestors I connect with most closely aren’t even my own blood, they are my husband’s, my child’s ancestors, the Kauffmanns and the Jacobs, Ashkenazi Jews who lived for hundreds of years in the same regions as my ancestors, and yet who were never safe from the genocidal cycles of antisemitism. So I would like to believe certain things about her, but I cannot know them, and won’t claim them.
Instead, what I know is that she moved to the woods and she took care of all the living beings that she could. I don’t know the details of that, I just know that everyone who ever knew her knew how committed she was to taking care of people and the land. After the war, my grandparents, young adults who both nearly died many times over during the war, my Opa in a prison camp and my Oma in Halle which was nearly firebombed, had nothing. They went to the woods, they went to her, and she helped them create a life. Her entire life after the war was dedicated to the Living World, writing children’s books about the forest and illustrating countless species from the woods of my ancestors. Her solitude, her wisdom, and the seeds she carried shaped my father and, through him, me.
My relationship with the forest comes from him. His best memories from his childhood were of walking the forests with her, learning the names and the stories of the creatures there, and making small fairy houses to honor and home the spirits of the land. He and I did that often throughout my childhood, and they are some of my best memories of him.
Carina’s story, though incomplete in my mind, reminds me of the lessons I am learning now: that sometimes resistance looks like staying rooted, like tending quietly to what matters, like growing in the shade.
The oak trees that surround my home stretch wide and high, casting deep, cooling shade. This shade is welcome in the hot subtropical climate, but I am someone who wants to grow food to feed my family and community. For the decades we’ve called this land home, I’ve been told their canopy limited what was possible here. Gardening books and agricultural advice often frame shade as a challenge to overcome: cut down the trees, open the fields, make way for the sun.
The way we approach production gardens mirrors the perpetual growth ethos of the dominant culture that got us here. We see it in everything, this endless summer, how we do business, how we push ourselves physically and mentally, how we treat the land. Constant extraction, maximum energy.
But this is not the only way that life can grow.
This is not the only way to cultivate value.
The more I sit with these oak trees, the more I see all that they offer. So many plants evolved in the understory of forests, thriving in filtered light and nutrient-rich soil created by the trees themselves. Life in the shade is layered, interconnected, and resilient. They protect us during hurricanes. They create a microclimate that is cooler in the summer and protects us from frost in the winter. Beneath a canopy, the ecosystem flourishes not in spite of the shade but because of it.
Food forests, modeled on the living wisdom of the living world, embrace this layered approach to growing. In a food forest, the tall trees provide shelter and structure, while shorter fruit trees and shrubs thrive below them. Herbs, ground cover, and fungi fill the gaps, creating a system of abundance that works with life’s rhythms rather than against them. These systems remind us that growth doesn’t have to be fast or direct to be valuable.
Agroecology—an approach to food production deeply rooted in Indigenous knowledge—teaches us this lesson on a larger scale. It’s a way of working with ecosystems to grow food while restoring soil, capturing carbon, and nurturing biodiversity. It challenges the industrial model that treats land as a blank canvas for extraction, urging us to return to a relational way of growing.
This return is essential in the times we are living through, for countless reasons. The endless summer of extraction and constant production has pushed us to the brink—ecologically, socially, and spiritually. Agroecology offers a path back to balance, to honoring the shade and the seasons, to working with the land instead of forcing it to produce on our terms.
And it starts right here, in my own backyard.
For years, I believed the shade of the oak trees was a limitation, but now I’m learning how to work within it. Instead of resigning myself, I’m asking and experimenting with what can thrive here. I’ve started researching and growing shade-loving food, herbs, and companion plants. I’m looking at the layers of life and potential that could emerge if I stop wishing things were other than how they are.
This practice feels like a metaphor for so much more than gardening. It’s a reminder that resilience doesn’t always come from striving harder or demanding more. Sometimes it comes from slowing down, listening, and working with what’s already present.
The oak trees have been here far longer than I have. They are elders, in every sense of the word. Their shade is not an obstacle; it is an offering, a reminder to honor what is already alive and to grow with care and intention beneath their canopy.
And under this canopy, a new layer of growth is emerging—not just in the soil, but in my community. My friend
, who has been such a generous support as we shape our garden, keeps a seed library. It’s a living archive of resilience, generosity, and resilience.As we plant, tend, and exchange seeds, the library will grow alongside us. We learn what thrives in our particular climate and conditions, what adapts, what resists, and what struggles. Each growing season will bring discoveries that can be shared, enriching not just our own efforts but those of our neighbors and friends.
This seed library is a reminder that resilience is not built in isolation. It grows through relationships—between people, between plants, and between us and the land we care for. By deepening our connection to the soil and to one another, we’re creating a reciprocal network of care, a web of shared resources that will sustain us far into the future.
My vision for this space—this shaded garden and the community I’m part of—is one of abundance. I want to grow food that nourishes us physically, but also herbs that can heal our minds, our bodies, and our spirits. I want to cultivate plants that remind us of what it means to be connected: to each other, to the earth, and to the wisdom of those who came before us.
And we do this with the watchful support of the oaks, the elders of this place. The trees, the seed library, and the stories of my great aunt Carina all remind me of the same truth: there are many ways to grow, many ways to resist, many ways to thrive. Life doesn’t always need full sunlight.
In these times of upheaval and uncertainty, we’re relearning the old ways—ways that have always been here, practiced by Indigenous communities who understood that living well is about relationship, not domination. To grow in the shade is to honor these ways. It is to slow down, to observe, to adapt, and to hold space for the abundance that can emerge when we work with the rhythms of the living world.
As I plant seeds in the soil, I am reminded of the seeds I am planting in my community, in my family, and in myself. Each one contains the future within it, just as the quiet acts of so many ancestors shaped the possibilities we live into today. Beneath the shade of the oaks, surrounded by the wisdom of friends, elders, and ancestors, I am learning to trust this slow, deliberate, and deeply interconnected work.
The shade is not an obstacle. It is an invitation—a call to remember the power of patience, care, and collaboration. It’s here, in these quieter, cooler spaces, that resilience takes root.
Regardless of how much food I am able to grow in the shade, one thing I know for certain is that I can grow community here. Under the oaks, there is space to gather—a space that is cool, welcoming, and hospitable. It’s here that my vision for resilience takes root: a neighborhood network of people who love the earth, who want to grow, learn, and share, who are ready to create something larger together.
While the oak canopy may limit what can thrive directly beneath it, the possibilities that will grow from these gatherings will reach far beyond this one shaded area. Together, we’ll share seeds, stories, and knowledge. We’ll support one another as we cultivate the micro-ecosystems of our yards, balconies, and small plots, experimenting with what thrives in the full light of the sun or the partial light of shade.
What grows from these circles will far exceed the boundaries of any single yard or garden bed. It will be resilience in its truest form—a web of relationships, skills, and care that can sustain us through the seasons ahead.
Poem, When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It's simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
A beautiful, thoughtful meditation. Thank you for sharing your wise reflections and story of your great aunt Carina. That story touched my heart today. 🙏🩷