I am doing one of my favorite wintertime activities: watching the snow fall, gradually erasing the yard, from my sofa nest. As the white accumulates, the frenetic dance of juncos and titmice comes into sharper relief as they search for the seeds I sprinkled and sip from the heated birdbath (an extravagant gift to myself to attract more birds). 

I wanted to try growing native prairie plants from seed. While planting nursery-raised flowers gives more immediate satisfaction, it would take a huge budget and great labor to rival the variety of a seed mix like the one I chose, which contains the possibility of 100 species of grasses and wildflowers.

Entelechy is a word I learned the first year of grad school from a classmate who studied ancient Greece. It means potentiality, as a huge oak tree lies metaphorically bundled into an acorn, or a teeming meadow waits within a packet of seeds.

To prepare myself, I read Benjamin Vogt’s Prairie Up, and I signed up for his newsletter. Vogt, a poet-naturalist-entrepreneur, writes often about how capitalism leaves most of us with scant time or energy to analyze the roots of inequity or to question the status quo, including the predominance of lawns, which ultimately benefit the chemical and petroleum industries with all the additives and mowing they require. Vogt’s own yard features a gorgeous native garden where his young son frolics in suburban Lincoln. 

Since moving to Indianapolis, I often find myself surprised at the strength of the winds (windy Indy). The lack of hills and trees in our subdivision surely contributes to the unbroken gusts, which tend to scatter litter all over the yard. With nearly every yard flat and featureless, the trash tumbleweeds just keep blowing around, though the vegetation in my yard occasionally catches them. I am generally annoyed to find other people’s detritus marring my property.

In a recent essay, Vogt says he has come to appreciate how his prairie serves as a filter for his neighborhood. As he picks bits of plastic off his plants and disposes of them, he’s grateful that his garden has captured this dangerous waste before it is consumed by an animal or washed into waterways. 

Huh, I thought. It had never occurred to me to celebrate my resentful litter pickups, but they do provide a chance to help wildlife. If my envisioned prairie takes root, the plants will catch a whole lot more litter.

Most advice on sowing native prairie seeds says to do it after the first frost, as many need cold stratification to germinate. In 2025, the first frost fell in October.

The months went by. I gave myself more projects at work (a bit frantic to find something constructive to do in the face of so much destruction), leaving me with less energy to invest in gardening. I nervously watched January go past, knowing I needed to sow these seeds, but hesitant to venture out in the unusually frigid weather.

Finally, my sister suggested I work with my brother-in-law to sow before Storm Fern hit. Jasmine had heard me say that I’d seen advice to sow before a snowfall, as the blanket of snow can protect the seeds from getting immediately blown away or consumed, and her nudge pushed me past my fear of the cold.

Dhabih and I broadcast the seeds by hand (stinging cold hands—temperature: 13 degrees, not counting wind chill). As I returned to my house after sowing, I saw the first snowflakes begin to fall. I recognize that in gardening by seed, I must relinquish my desire for control and guaranteed outcomes. Yet, Nature’s soft-draped blanket over the freshly sown seeds seems to augur well. 

The seeds now sit on the ground, waiting for the freeze-thaw cycle to work them into the soil. When spring kisses them, some should begin to germinate. In three years, it will, if we’re lucky, start looking like a prairie.

Entelechy. The snow falls this evening. I imagine in many years’ time, my little oak sapling reaching sheltering branches out, a small savannah buzzing with creatures beside it.