Summer is here. Just like that she has overtaken me, outrun me and has me in a stranglehold. Am I ready? It matters not, she has throw me into sticky days of sweat and harvest, blackberries, farmer tans, salt on my lips and work so high I can barely reach it. The weeds outpace me and the call of the mockingbirds only seem to irritate and mock me as I struggle to keep up with it all: toes sunk into good earth, hair smattered against my neck, shoulders bronzed, eyes skyward, hands calloused. At the end of each day I collapse, filthy and diminished. My soul weary, wizened, soaring from the wondrous exhaustion of living. The garden striding along, me struggling to keep pace, unaware of what day of the week it is. For now the needs and rhythms of the land pull me along: Friday is known as the CSA day, Wednesday and Thursdays, harvest days, Saturdays, market day. This leaves Monday and Tuesday for planting days. But every day is weeding day.
Thursday, the solstice, when Earth's axis was tilted at 23.5° toward the sun, was our hottest day yet, and each day after even hotter. The night of the solstice, on the longest day of the year, when the energy of the sun was almost overwhelming, we went outside and planted a sacred blue corn that had been gifted to us on our travels out west this past winter. Some say to avoid planting on the solstice, that the energy is too strong, others will tell you to simply embrace it. I am very intuitive about my planting schedule. Corn is a special crop for me that often appears in my dreams, commanding that I plant her now. The urge to plant this sacred corn was strong and so I listened as the fireflies sang in the gloaming, telling me it is so and I listen and hear them, not for the first time.
The strawberry moon was bright, the air warm and the crickets loud. Mooing volleyed back and forth from field to field as it often does right at the full moon. Cows and animals and humans too, enjoy getting up to mischief and this strawberry moon was no exception. The three steer calves have been hopping in and out of the fence to nibble on my sweet corn and find mischief to get into in the form of a large plastic bag. As I walked back to the house, tired and drenched in sweat, but still slightly rejuvenated, I could feel the longest day transitioning into the shortest night as the air cooled and my breath lengthened. The night sky felt thin as stars slowly tried to make their way through the bright moonlight.
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Summer had arrived in all her fierce glory. There is no elegance in surviving her humid southern fury, only determination and a willingness to embrace the salty side of life. Occasionally, you will curse her, but then there are tomatoes and blackberries and fireflies and sunsets to sate your thirst, if only for a moment. This is the feeling that took hold on my walk back to the house. Traditionally, solstices are a time of renewal, rejuvenation, and abundance. I'm not quite sure I felt any of that, to be honest. A slight sense of dread and exhaustion accompanied me throughout the day. I wasn't ready, I was too exhausted already, how was I going to survive the months of July and August, my least favorite months; the months when I curse farming and swear that I need to find another profession.
The sun is hot, the humidity stifling, the sweat profuse. The occasional breeze more welcoming than I realized in the moment. And just when did we decide to forgo rain for the summer, replacing it with hail and drought. What a drought! The grass is brown and crispy, the soil too sandy and the blackberries quite mouth-puckeringly sour. Lately, I find myself spending half my days running irrigation to crops like celery, lettuce, zucchini and arugula.
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We have been in a drought for years now, or so they tell us. This year's drought isn't as bad as last year's. My neighbor, who has spent his entire life here on the Virginia shore claims that's we've been in a drought for more than a decade now. Our pastures are turning dry and brown for lack of rain and my prayers turn skyward for a thunderstorm to break the heat and bless the ground. According to the Upanishads, rain can be conjured not by mere wishing but sacrifice. Rain altars and dances are common here on my farm, but sacrifice? Isn't my blood, sweat and tears enough or does this land demand even more from me in this age of climate change and relentless capitalist extraction that I have chosen to reincarnate into?
Amidst heat, humidity, drought and grumbling, there are so many small patches of shade, small celebrations of joy that I seek out. The strawberries, in their final June hurrah, remind me of those tiny strawberries you can find in Paris, small but each one absolutely bursting with flavor. My summertime salad mix comes alive with colorful edible flowers and bright purple Napa cabbage. I find myself drawn again and again to the flowers as I'm out harvesting. Soon I know that the nasturtiums will wither and give out with this heat and so I enjoy them now. Borage flowers are cooling with a bit of crunch and taste just like cucumbers, so I always pluck a few to munch on as I work away mornings, afternoons and evenings hoeing, planting, pruning, tending. Sometimes I panic, wondering if it's all too futile. I weed and hoe, while praying for rain which I know will only bring more weeds. What is the point? The work is the point.
The harvests are abundant as I try to cut and save the crops that simply won't survive this heat wave, despite my best efforts to irrigate, all the broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, and lettuce is cut and stored before the heat renders them bolting and inedible. The tomatoes, which we dry farm, in an effort to save water, maximize flavor (who likes watery tomatoes anyways?), and reduce plastic waste and use in the form of drip irrigation, actually seem to be thriving in this heat. The whole point of dry farming certain crops is to encourage them to develop deep taproots. Irrigation, especially drip irrigation, often does the opposite. The plant has no need to send out taproots deep into the soil because the water is always right there at the surface. I prune our tomatoes, trellising hundreds of feet up at a time. They are a labor of love, something I'm proud of, even as I curse them, sweat pouring into my eyes, my arms burning and itching as my skin comes into contact over and over again with their leaves and stems. When will it rain?
My least favorite time of year is imminent: the dog days of summer. Though these intense dogged days don't officially arrive until the beginning of July, I can already feel the foreboding energy. Cosmologically speaking, we have reached the midpoint, the high noon of the year. In Catholic and Eastern Orthodox tradition, midday is ruled by the demon, Acedia, or the noonday devil, who emerges when the sun is highest in the sky. Sticky, unrelenting, and unforgiving, it is an ever present force for those of us in the humid southeast. The extreme physical fatigue that comes with working long hours outside can only be matched by the strong pull of this midday demon who threatens to deflate my spirit as well as my body.
My tolerance for this time of year only extends as far as the abundance of tomatoes, peppers and eggplant that these days also bring. It's a brutal time of year for farmers and anyone who works outside. The pigs have the right idea on such a quintessential summer's day: napping and hiding and frolicking and finding cool and joy wherever and however they can. I swear half the reason why I keep these beautiful animals is for the laughter and foolishness and as an important reminder to my grumpy, sweaty self: rest and play in the shade awhile, it's okay, summer will be gone before you know it.
We are now several days past the solstice but I can still feel her energy in the harsh glare of the sun. I am a devotee of her bright, warming energy. Just like a plant, I need her. You will find me outside at all hours of the day. I could have been working from dawn til dusk, but I will still want to eat my meals outside as my husband tries to gently pull me inside and remind me that it's okay to take a break sometimes too. Even still, I'm glad that the solstice is past and the days will grow shorter, the nights just a bit longer. Could I somehow plead for more time? Or perhaps a simple pause while I catch my breath. I need more time. Time to bottle the color of the strawflowers and the call of the indigo bunting. Time to capture that coastal breeze, before the seagulls steal her away in a haze of humidity. Time to inhale the scent of magnolias and elderflowers. Can I press fast-forward to September, where I revel in evenings free of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes? The barn swallows tell me I cannot. That time is as fleeting as their nightly visits. Instead, I'll attempt to savor, though the days are long and time too short, but my memory remains strong. I cannot stop it, we are barreling onward into summer. The fireflies herald her arrival, and into the gloaming we go. And so, gather ye rosebuds while ye may; old time is still a-flyin’. Ready or not, here she comes.
xxx Natalie
Gorgeous!
Here in Western Australia we are diving into winter. Chilly mornings with frost like salt across the grass, birds waiting in the trees for the sun to come up and warm their feathers, our breaths pluming, the nights cold, our blankets heavy.
All times of the year are great, and just as we get absolutely sick of them, the season changes again.
Nature is amazing.
Thanks for this piece, brilliant as always xx
I wish we could trade you some sunshine and heat for our incredibly gloomy and rainy Pacific Northwest weather this summer. The garden is growing so slow, but we have barely had to water all this year which is a blessing. The berries have been in abundance which is a nice treat, but I’m worried some of the other things will not be that great this year. I’ve never heard of dry growing tomatoes. It was my understanding always that they needed a large quantity of water? I’m curious to read more about this! Thank you for your words as always.