In the depths of the COVID-19 pandemic, when silence haunted classrooms and hope seemed scattered in the wind, I found myself drawn—pulled, even—towards something humbler, yet profoundly powerful: the soil.
As a teacher in a rural community, the pandemic hit hard. Schools were closed. My students, without access to digital learning, were left in academic limbo. I felt disoriented and disconnected—like a voice without a platform. Yet, amidst that stillness, there was a quiet calling. The earth beneath my feet, the trees around my village, and the scattered seeds I began collecting whispered a different kind of lesson: start where you are, do what you can.
The photo above captures that moment in time. A crate of seeds, collected from around my village, balanced on my shoulder. I was heading to the farm—unsure of what exactly I was building, but confident that it meant something. That act of seed collection and propagation was my way of reimagining education, rethinking resilience, and rooting my contribution to climate action.
Some say tree growing is overhyped. I understand the sentiment. From the legendary activism of Nobel laureate Wangari Mathaai defending Kenya’s urban forests to the inspiring work of young leaders like Elizabeth Wathuti, the narrative of tree planting has been both celebrated and, at times, exhausted.
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It’s not flashy. It doesn’t demand satellites, science labs, or billion-dollar funding. What it requires is heart, hands, and hope. The process is beautifully human—collecting local seeds, nurturing them in a nursery, watching them sprout, and finally seeing them thrive in the ground. Each step is a story of patience, purpose, and partnership with nature.
And therein lies the power: climate action isn’t the domain of “experts” alone. When we glorify only complex, data-driven, high-tech solutions, we alienate the very people who live closest to the land. We risk turning the fight against climate change into a specialist’s war, when it should be humanity’s revolution.
The truth is—real change is rooted in the ordinary. The village youth who plant a tree, the grandmother who guards indigenous seeds, the teacher who turns a school into a green haven—these are the unsung heroes of climate resilience. They don’t appear on global panels or tweet climate graphs, but they carry the spirit of action where it matters most: on the ground.
To this day, I still collect and propagate seeds. Every time I press one into the soil, I know I’m doing more than growing a tree—I’m cultivating agency, anchoring hope, and shaping a future where anyone, anywhere, can be part of the solution.
Let others chase complexity. I’ll keep doing the ordinary. Because in the end, it’s the ordinary that changes the world.
About Author: Kevin Makova
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