Good Morning,
As the garden begins to shift from late summer into autumn, we can see this change reflected in the garden. The Autumn Joy Sedum begins to flower, the long awaited Autumn Clematis explodes into masses of tiny white blossoms, and the mums begin to appear in shades of red, burnt orange, russet, burgundy, gold, and brown, as they herald the arrival of autumn. These colors mixed with the strong pinks of the phlox and the purples of the Monkshood, bring a new mood to the garden.
The ornamental trees, Malus, Salix, Hawthorne, and Cornus Kousa, have transformed the spring flowers that donned their branches, into brilliant berries that linger after the leaves have fallen and give outstanding color to the landscape. These new colors reflect the larger landscape as the leaves on the maples begin to turn deep red and orange, the oaks turn to russet and brown, and the poplar, from yellow to amber. The natural world is filled with wisdom and order. The garden is winding down and moving toward a period of rest. We can take our cue from the garden into our everyday life.
Here in New England, autumn is a time for slowing down, for reflection, and to begin preparations for the coming winter. Yet, in September there is a kind of new energy that rises in the crisp morning air. The lazy days of August are over. We lift up out of our summer stupor and begin to feel renewed strength and vigor.
We involve ourselves with the harvesting of the vegetable and herb gardens. We begin the process of preserving foods through the activities of canning, freezing, and drying. We madly prepare the last of the pesto from the basil patch, before the first frost takes their leaves. After the quiet summer, the kitchen is suddenly a flurry of activity. We relish the last of the tomatoes, peppers, and melons, savoring the flavors we won’t experience again until next year. We meet all this with new appreciation. It is the appreciation of what will soon be lost.
September is a bittersweet month. It is the beginning of the process of letting go. Every gardener feels this tug. We await the gardening season with such eagerness; yet, it seems to pass so swiftly. There is much to be learned from this time of year. It offers us a time to practice loss. This is a kind of preparation for the larger losses in life. What we know from the garden is that some things die back and return in the spring. Others don’t return, but we remember them fondly. We might learn about how to treat them better the next time.
We might also learn that there is a life cycle and when it nears its end, it is time to let go. The aging maple with heart rot can be a parallel to our aging family member or friend whose heart is simply wearing out. We learn that there is a time to fight for life, and a time to let go. Every gardener has grieved the loss of a favorite tree that has run its course, or has suffered irreparable damage from a windstorm or heavy wet snow.
In the garden, we learn about life. All of it. The good and the difficult to bear. We also learn that we somehow survive these losses and find new joys and challenges. We have an opportunity to practice all of these things so that when the bigger losses find us, we are more prepared to meet them.
Gardeners become realists because life in the garden is, above all, real. Gardening is an exercise in strength and courage. Yet, we come back each year to face these things. Maybe it is because gardening serves as a reminder that there is a balance in this life that is borne of a larger kind of wisdom, and we somehow recognize that we want or need to be part of it. Perhaps there is even something in us that is driven to it.
Whatever the reason, this is part of what makes us gardeners. Despite the odds, when each new spring arrives, we pick up our shovels.
September 24, 2011
