Indulging in a season
As I'm writing this, it's November outside. Not just on my calendar— the actual weather matches my expectations for what the month should be. The sky is grey, the ground is damp, the wind is ruffling the fallen leaves. Even the birds I'm hearing in this moment match the mood: not the twittering of little brown song birds, but the sharp calls of a duo of crows that have been visiting us this week.
It’s perfect planting weather, great news when you have 200 bulbs to get in the ground. We are putting a lot of effort into our spring planting this fall as we slowly expand our season length. That’s the problem with flowers: it’s all fun and midsummer zinnia games until you get hooked and realize that with a little diligence and planning, you can have local fresh flowers nearly all year round.
The flip side of that is of course flowers = work. To be sure, “beautiful tools make work a joy,” as Gretchen Rubin is fond of saying, but a lack of work also makes future work sweeter. It’s essential to have breaks. Not being overwhelmed by buckets of fresh flowers makes the planting process more attractive. More meditative. There is more space for imagination of what will be. When arranging time comes, my hands will be so grateful to hold the stems that once were bulbs and seeds.
Don’t get me wrong, summer planting is exciting in its own way, but then again, summer is the time of bustle and speed. It’s the time to practice multitasking, to reskill ourselves after winter’s slow rest. In order to find happiness in the busyness, though, we must also have a season where busyness is not top priority.
It feels strange to be writing that after using a portion of my morning to fill out my calendar for the next month, seeing day after day fill with activities, holiday events, and work deadlines. It’s a different kind of busyness, though, a human busyness instead of nature’s busyness. Sometimes I wonder if culturally we’ve imposed this on ourselves because we have forgotten the importance of true rest, as if this is a way to exhaust ourselves in order to force a post-holiday recovery period.
It balances itself out in the end, the way I can give myself over to the speed of the season, whether it’s summer where the garden calls my attention, or winter when it’s people instead. Each season has its ebb and flow, and I try to listen over the din of world around me. Sure we’re planting in November, we’re working hard still because the farm work never truly ends, yet I’ll end the day when the sun sets early, then sit down at the table for a bowl of steaming soup as I prepare for a slow evening of dreaming.
Love,
Meg
P.S. Local friends: Check in next week for our first ever Black Friday special! You won't want to miss this market opportunity.