Reality is stratified, like the layers of an onion or the pages of a book. Between the pages are the spaces where ideas grow. Just fragile shreds of summer-green lace, these tiny poppy sprouts spread wild across the crumbled chocolate earth. They're not in rows like the seedlings in a vegetable bed, not as formal as furrows or as homely as beans. They wait, dancing radiant and random, weaving in and out of the pages of reality.
You need to be still, still as dust, still as your favorite cat, to feel the pages turn and see the spaces open up. The ideas are already there, little needy things that require the light of your attention, salty moisture from the sweat of your practice, and the fine fertile earth of imagination in which to put down roots. Then they'll grow as they grow. You can't push them, can't force a poppy to be a tree. You open yourself, offer your voice, maybe weed a little or sometimes gently prune. Giving them this quiet care will cultivate thriving ideas that you can transplant easily.