After taking off the month of August from writing, I'm back! For many, August is a vacation month, but for me, it's one of the busiest and most exhausting months of my year. Now that I'm back, my schedule will return to normal: I plan on writing weekly and occasionally bi-monthly if I have a particularly busy week, as I do have travel plans for workshops that are taking me away a couple of times this fall, as well as a workshop on our farm that you can read more about at the bottom of this piece. If you are local, I hope you'll join us here on the Virginia Eastern Shore this October.
During the summer, I become someone else entirely. Subsumed by cycles older and stronger than I, indentured to the schedules of vegetables and planting and markets. Choked by humidity, cloaked in a layer of grime and sweat, it is difficult to feel human during the haze of summer.
It is September when I finally remember, and I begin to return to myself again. Perhaps it is the breeze that carries with it a memory of gentler days, cool evenings, and a promise of sleep for the earth and myself. With the shortening of days, the summer’s extraversion declines inexorably toward the introversion of winter. It is at the autumn equinox — not in spring — that the spiritual year begins. What we put into the earth at this time determines what will emerge next season. The work for next spring has already begun. Manure collected from cows, overgrown weeds cut down, all finally assembled into dramatic piles out of the precious detritus of this year as the basis of next year’s fertility.
Now, the garden and I, emerging from the siren song of summer, both slightly frayed at the edges, are ready to give up the ghost, eager for shorter days. Hopefully, what follows is a bit kinder and less harsh, for both of us have weathered enough for now, and the tilt of the sun reminds us that we don't have to squint so hard; we can soften ever so slightly while continuing to work the good earth. Still, there are tasks to be done and rain to be prayed for as we hurry to plant before it's too late. But the urgency is different now. We've come to accept things as they are: the failures and the triumphs. And so we whisper prayers to the carrots that they will germinate thick and fast, while beseeching the weeds to hold back just a little while longer. These prayers are carried by the monarchs waving on the milkweed, and for a second, we're convinced that someone, anyone, heard us.
We plant cover crops generously over our failures. We paint over it all in large swaths of green, convinced next year will be better. But perhaps this year wasn't so bad after all. Ringing true and fierce above it all is that old familiar pang and a glimmer of hope. How can anyone farm without hope? To plant a seed is to hope.
Though frayed at the edges, this garden is not quite done with me yet, but she has loosened her tether. And for now, at least, I am content to do just enough. No more, no less. August might have swallowed me whole, but September chose to spit me back out again. And what emerges is a woman slowly coming back to herself. Hopefully, she's just a bit kinder, but almost certainly none the wiser than before because despite her curses, she's already dreaming of next year's garden, a universe imagined, yet to be created, a garden still perfect, just out of reach.
The sunflowers spotted her first and whispered her name on the wind. As I heard them sing that old familiar refrain, I knew that despite the ravages of summer there was so much yet to come. But first, let me sit for a moment here, now, and bask in the glory of a season not quite yet done. Summer effects persist, and yet, her vital presence is almost gone. Neither here nor there but somewhere in between, tapping on the threshold. Do you hear her?
You say you hate August but I don't believe you. Would September be nearly so sweet, so welcome, so pure if not for the rages of dog days too ferocious, too incandescent to quell? Gently, gently, she comes, like that old friend you've been waiting for all along.
Bodily bound, but no matter, my mind remains wild and free to wander. Grasses shiver in the evening breeze and I can feel summer starting to fade, her fierceness waning, she is finally beginning to let go. Her twilight is upon us now, but in my mind, I'm already there, I've been there for weeks.
What was that first intimation, the jumping-off point? My mind has always been prone to wild imaginations, so forgive me if I can't quite recall the precise day and hour when I arrived at the precipice. What prompted me to jump, my mind flying miles away, days ahead before my body ever could. Perhaps it was the shapely way the green persimmons hung onto the trees, and I painted them orange before they'd even given away the faintest blush because I just knew. Was it the way the loblollies stood tall and proud, casting shadows against a sky so stern and loud? Perhaps I smelled it on the breeze, a slight decay, a premonition of death and rot, summer's fate sealed before she'd even begun.
The tomatoes are finishing fast now, and I am sorry to see them go. How fleeting it all is and yet, still I am eager to see summer out, to show her the door, to shut it quite firmly. Never one to go easy, still she lingers, thrashing, releasing a steady barrage of humidity and sun. Will I regret my impatience, my hostility to her exacting demands and harsh conditions? I feel the distant throb already, that disconsonant ache of despair and rapture coursing through my veins. Will I miss her? Only time will tell. Buried in scents of something so fleeting that I've forgotten her pleasures before I've even arrived.
As the seasons shift and change, as summer wanes and fall comes knocking, Virgo, my sun sign, the sign of home, agriculture, security, and harvest, welcomes you with open arms.
A sign to hang your hat on, to stay awhile and take note. We're rooted firmly in earth, yet our ideals soar heavenward. Striving, always striving, to create a better world for us all.
I like to fancy that Virgos are akin to trees. Firmly rooted in earth we provide shelter, care, and rest: a haven to all who venture under our boughs. Virgos are a sign you can count on most to get shit done. As an earth sign, we are incredibly grounded individuals, not just to the earth, but to our own purpose as well. Traditionally depicted with a scythe, Virgos are the goddesses of agriculture and fertility, nurturing from tiny seed to harvest. We are the makers and doers, the inexhaustible workhorses, never tiring, never giving up even when defeat seems inevitable. We know what is good and true and so we follow it with all our hearts. The rest is just simple logistics. Virgos are not visionaries but we are the person to turn to when you want your visions realized.
While the young Virgo might be a naïve, chaste maiden, she eventually grows into the wise witch, hermit and healer: cognizant of all the pain and suffering that exists around her. Before one can heal, one must learn to see the problem and ache for the sufferer, as we too suffer alongside them. To be a Virgo is to see it all, clear-eyed and true, yet still strive for something better. We yearn for a just world: home, peace and safety for all.
This Virgo season, may you find renewed strength, hope and purpose, committing wholeheartedly to your plans and goals. Virgo is strongest when she sees the world before her with clear eyes and determines to do better, fighting for change. Look at the world with all it's faults and problems and then join the cause in helping to make it better. My idealism still remains unflaggingly optimistic. Despite failure, disappointment and the reality of today, I still see the world for all that it could be. I suffer with you, I see you, but I also dream with you of a better tomorrow.
xxxx Natalie
What's New
We're hosting a workshop here on our farm, October 18-20th and you can read all about it here:
It's sliding scale, so that we can make it accessible to as many folks as possible. The food will be prepared by me and the majority of it grown by me with vegan and vegetarian options for folks as well. There will be bonfires in the evening, coffee in the morning and lots of good conversation, community, work and learning throughout each day. Camping is also available on our farm. More than anything else, our workshops are an attempt to cultivate community and a sense of place in a world that quite often does not value either. We do this by digging our hands into the good earth, turning our heads toward the sun and breathing in the fresh salt air. We hope you'll join us this October.
What We're Eating
Here on the shore, September is the month of peppers and eggplant. This means that I've been making a weekly batch of my husband's favorite, baba ganoush, along with lots of sourdough focaccia. I'm growing quite a variety of smoky hot peppers this year, in addition to my usual poblanos, and I'm really enjoying the depth of flavor they add to the baba ganoush. Here you can see that I've topped it with tomatoes and sweet peppers to finish it off so each mouthful contains smooth and crunchy textures. We eat this for lunch and dinner!
What We're Growing
The cantaloupes were so good this year, despite the amount of rain that late July and August dumped on us. We lost almost our entire initial planting because of the rain: most simply rotted in the field. The second planting blessed us with more luck and flavor. The orange in this picture simply doesn't do it justice. It is so vibrant and I was informed by multiple people that it was the best cantaloupe they'd ever had! My husband loves to eat cantaloupe sprinkled with salt which I found rather odd and not to my liking. Apparently it is a Southern habit, but I suppose it is a similar idea to eating cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. I like mine plain and very cold, maybe with a bit of yogurt first thing in the morning. How do you like to eat your cantaloupe?
Just a simple naive word: Good to know that there are good people out there.
Greetings from Lake Constance, southern Germany.
I am so deeply envious of that gorgeous cantaloupe! Perhaps my favorite fruit of all—and like your husband, I salt it!