Taking Stock

Spring is my favorite time of year, when it is spring. When it's autumn, autumn is my favorite time of year. George Santayana said, "To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring." And it is true, there is gift in being awake to the cycles of nature through all its seasons. I have never been so aware of all that is happening as I have been since I fell in love with the garden. Every season brings me in touch with the rhythms of life, both in the yard and in my own nature, but especially so in spring and fall.

I find the change of seasons around the vernal and autumnal equinoxes a more spiritual time to take stock--to examine accomplishments and disappointments,  to consider what I want to plant and what I want to pull up--than the change in the calendar from one year to the next. I feel particularly attuned to the natural world in these months.

Autumn is the time to gather in, and to celebrate the harvest. As I walked through my garden this week, after the rains finally came, I looked for what worked and what did not; and what this particular summer brought in its uniqueness. The lack of rain kept the moles away, until now. There were no mowings that resulted in a strip-mine appearance from rolling over their tunnels. And, of course, I did not have to mow as often. That about covers the upside of drought. Planting grape tomatoes was pure genius. I loved my ritual morning time of going out with my bowl and picking a handful of the bright red globes, pulling vines away to get at those hidden in the chaos. They sat on my windowsill to finish ripening and I put them in salad, pasta, grilled vegetables, and my mouth. Both the planted vines and the volunteers from the compost with which I enriched the soil are loaded again after the rain with little green fruits. I wonder if they will ripen before first frost. I think not.

My carefully harvested sunflower heads molded in the shed while they were drying. Perhaps I left them too long. It is a lesson I have trouble learning: I can't hide out in the darkness of my shed and expect good things to happen and that all is well in my soul. I must keep checking in with myself.

The passion flower vine that I had such high hopes for continues to grow at the speed of light on the chain link fence, but has not bloomed. And the banana tree is still putting out new leaves, but did not reach it expected height. Both plants, though, do not die completely back in the winter. They will continue their growth in the spring from a place of establishment rather from the ground up. I expected to enjoy the spectacular passion flower bloom, and I anticipated that the banana tree would grow to roof height, but obviously I was not in charge. I also had high hopes for passion in my own life this summer, but the bloom and the height did not live up to my hopes; at least it hasn't yet. Perhaps, like the vine on my fence, I was not ready to bloom. However, I am not going back into the ground, either, I will continue my growth from a new, more established point.

I spent time in my garden this summer as never before, after the creating time was completed. I sat in the shade of the dogwood tree through the heat, and observed the life around me. I convinced myself to let my new-found heat tolerance keep me from my annual camping trip in the mountains. It was a mistake. It merely confirmed that mountain-time is essential for me, no matter how good things are at home. Sleeping on the ground, hiking in the woods, looking down to what is below me and up to all that is bigger is not a time I should take lightly. Letting the earth hold me up, becoming one with the earth spirit, is vital to my well-being.

Not everything makes an immediate dive into the ground when the weather turns cool. The lantana blooms more prolifically when the nights are cool. The blooms on the Mexican petunia are clinging to their stems all day rather than having fallen off by the time I return home in the evening. The zinnias are full of buds. The dogwood tree is covered with berries. Winter, not autumn, is hibernation time. There is still beauty to behold and happiness to harvest.

The most difficult part of fall for me is pulling up the vinca and marigolds that, though beginning to get leggy, are still beautiful. But they must be pulled to plant the pansies while the ground is still warm. The summer annuals are dying, and room must be made for what comes next. Need I say that much in life is the same way? We will not find life in clinging to what, though beautiful in its season, is over. Seasons change, we are always dealing with loss, even as we welcome gain. We could never design a life that would boost our powers of resilience as well as the natural world does. And if we were in charge, we would never be surprised.

Yesterday began my fall week of stay-cation; time in the garden and with myself without the distraction of work. It is made all the more sweet by the fact that I have worked long and hard for the past month. I am ready to get my hands off the computer keys and into the dirt. To move from creation on the screen and paper, to creating art in and for the garden. And time to look inward at what needs to and wants to be harvested or planted within myself. Yesterday I leveled a crater in my yard made by the extraction of a tree some time ago. Today I will scatter grass seed. Leveling out of highs and lows is what this time means to me. And autumn is the gateway; the time between the extreme extroversion of summer and the extreme introversion of winter. I will keep you posted.