a stirring, barely felt.
a whisper, carried windward.
a first blush, shy and tender.
september, O september!
Mushrooms erupt, escaping their magical mycelial kingdom below, eager for a brief moment in the sun. Popping up across field and forest, a vibrant portent of decay, exploding after the rain, and bringing with them a piquant musky odor. Rain, glorious gift from the heavens, washing over the farm, nourishing the pastures. The summer was brutal, making fall's gifts that much sweeter. As the light slowly retreats, as days grow shorter, silently and swiftly heralding the arrival of autumn, I too grow in anticipation. A rusty spectrum begins to catch my eye. Rot and decay overwhelm my senses. Leaves commence their journey from green to gold. Goldenrod begins to pop up across the farm, swaying banners of gold heralding fall’s arrival and since I am in danger of making it all sound too romantic, too bucolic, the goldenrod also heralds the arrival of ragweed and allergies, as we hurriedly attempt to keep pace and mow it all down before it goes to seed and exacerbates our sinuses even more. This year's vigilance will be next year's triumph, I remind myself through sniffles and watery eyes.
Each plant holds a story. Every animal, a unique language. Each herb, a friend in waiting. The land herself pulsates with it all, bursting forth in song, eager to share. As the year passes and one cycle is subsumed into the next, I am struck, bowled over, actually, by the wondrous journey of it all. With each corn tassel pollinated on the wind, carrying a memory of corn planted, prayed over and harvested season after season. These hands, my hands, that placed kernels of corn into soil, now harvest the heads, echoing the dance of ancestors long before me.
Within each bite of food exists stories and songs older than us: maps of entire worlds tracing cultures and landscapes unknown, yet familiar too. Disappointment, frustration, elation, joy, heartache, resentment, gratitude. Like the food we grow and consume, each word we utter, every thought sung, ripples out all around us. The effect, whether or not we are conscious of it, whether or not we believe it to be true, has the power to create or destroy, injure or comfort, tempt or satiate. And so, may each of us tread upon this earth lightly, mindful to use our gifts with compassion and care for one another.
To grow is to paint a picture, tell a story, sing a song. Each clove of garlic potent with our thoughts as we press them into the earth. Every cabbage a landscape of our emotions. Each tomato a brush stroke of love. Every bee and beetle, a relative. And we, each of us, cultivators and students of our good Mother Earth, blessed with the power to create or destroy. May we remain ever reverent, curious and grateful through it all. May we bear the burden of these whispers with our senses laid bare before the altar as one season turns over into the next.
Stories upon seasons upon cycles, old as time, repeating themselves year after year. Stalwartly the same, but ever so slightly different too. Birds that sing the same song, generation after generation, some more vibrantly than others, recognizable nonetheless, most believing they sing out first and fiercer than those that flew before. How I wish I could bottle the light, the scent of mushrooms and dirt, the breeze carrying out summer, the crinkle of corn husks, the red of crabapples, the honey of figs. If only I could capture the goddamn fleeting glory of it all and then in the midst of summer when the light is too harsh, the air too thick and my spirit dejected and low, I could pull it out if only to greedily inhale it all and remind myself that gentler times are on the horizon.
We spent the summer wrapped up in dreams conquered, realized, fulfilled. Always with a healthy dose thwarted, dashed, failed. And yet, despite all the busts and successes, despite my plans and preconceptions, it was the garden, nature herself, who won out and kept on thriving through it all. Who reminded me through blossoming sunflowers that I did not plant, that she has other, grander plans. So I'll wait awhile, tend my fall garden, sow cover crops for the soil and plan for next year, for a garden not yet done with me.
With each cool morning, the lettuce turns just a bit sweeter, the corn a bit drier, and with it, my spirit and energy begin to return, too.
Let me lie down, a silent witness to it all, as one season and sun turns over into the next. The damp earth envelops me, scent and sight and sound permeating through my whole body.
Ragweed pierces into my back, while goats cackle from across the field. Hops ripen rapidly on the vine, a tonic in anticipation of our collective need for rest and sleep. Pear and apple hang heavy on the trees, delicious baubles ready for preserves and pie. If you look in just the right way, in just the right light, you can see the persimmons beginning to blush, a lone pop of color come December when everything else has given up the ghost. The sunsets are different now, the mornings are cooler and I can feel my energy begin to return.
Autumn crept in on the breeze and the goldenrod, gently swaying orange fairies heralding her arrival, while the embers of summer grew ever more dim. For my part, I was relieved and welcomed her, laying down amongst her rusty warmth, while one season shifted into the next. Nights are longer now, days more gentle. Harvest hues, starlight sap, ochre homage: memories that repeat themselves year after year. Now I can let go.
As the light grows stingier, so the trees grow wearier and slowly, ever so slowly, we begin to let go. As the leaves turn, so do I. We each are servants to the light, helpless at her commands. Once verdant, now rusty, slowly releasing until bare and stubby. The scent of decay is sharp, cutting into my senses as I wait for the dying, confident that my deep roots can carry me through to spring. Mushrooms, persimmons, pears, seedpods, daddy long legs, pungently litter my landscape. Gather me into your arms and let me rest awhile among the leaves, the ruin of summer, the throne of the harvest: safe in the knowledge that spring will come again before I know it. Is this what coming home feels like?
And so we say adieu to summer, to the rush and heat, the long days and sun, to the pure chaos that forced me to keep moving through it all. Will I miss her? Of course I will. Soon enough another spring will arrive with buds bursting forth, thunderous with potential. And I will live it all, just as fiercely as if I were experiencing it for the very first time.
But for now, I welcome fall and with it, the season of Libra, of beauty and Venus.
Happy autumn, blessed equinox, dear ones.
xxxxx Natalie
What We're Eating
The figs are finishing up fast and furious right now and after two solid months of picking them, I'm not going to complain. We've sold gallons upon gallons at market, included them in our weekly CSA (community supported agriculture) and frozen many more to put in smoothies and to preserve later on this winter when I have a bit more time on my hands. We've also been making a fig chocolate cake with all of the especially jammy, squishy, soon to be fermenting figs.
I got the original idea here but have changed the recipe significantly in several ways. I absolutely load the top with figs because it creates this delightful jammy layer on top that only gets better a day or two later, if the cake even lasts that long. At the height of fig season over the past few weeks, I made this cake again and again with all of the very soft figs that would’ve simply gone in the compost. It was never a bad idea and everyone else on the farm seems to agree with me. The only ones who weren't impressed were my dogs, who absolutely love figs and will pick them off the trees themselves, but who weren't allowed a bite of the chocolate cake for reasons obvious to everyone but them.
What's Happening
We're having a workshop here on our farm October 18-20, and I hope that you can join us for a weekend of community spent outdoors, working and learning together. It's sliding scale in order to make it accessible to as many folks as possible, with work trade options available too. Camping is also available on the farm as well. I'm in charge of food and they'll be lots of vegan and vegetarian options available with the majority of the food sourced directly from our farm. These events are really about community and I love getting to meet new people and see old friends.
Your writings touch the soul of every life form including the Cosmos. You are a beautiful healer of all that is and is to come. Gratitude from this elder heart.
So beautiful, thank you for this meditation on our blessed seasonal shift. <3