“Autumn is a time for goodbyes. Some harsh, some gentle. Just as the general stores in Vermont see a shift in their clientele, and the disappearance of their summer people, we gardeners also feel a quieting, and eventual silence, of our bountiful, endless days. It would be a cliche to say “bittersweet”, but if this isn’t that, I don’t know what is. Fewer cars at our pitstops, homes emptied of bustle, and rarely a lawn mower to be heard, amid the dry, rustling accumulation of fallen leaves, and debris. Granted a few last weeks for digging, we reduce, rearrange, and thin. The compost pile fills with live roots, bright nasturtium blooms on wilted stems and the occasional rotted squash. It’s a time for flying on our utility vehicles, as if to beat or at least stay ahead of the snow. Red cheeked, sun-seeking, determined to finish on a good note, but not expecting anything but less of everything, we labor in anticipation of an early, but satisfactory, end. Yet when finally, the losses outweigh our ability to keep on going, that odd factor some call “grace” begins to shine, and counter, with moves so beautiful, none can speak of it properly. It’s no secret in my neighborhood, that death has made a few visitations, intruding and roaming uninvited, like a marauder seeking prey. On the flip side, out of utter, sheer force of character, our dead carry on inside us, even as we are forced to mourn them. And while the hard slug of loss is nothing if not unfair, the enormous rallying cry of survival against odds, and of art, and the best love we can muster, is enough, and is the sacred ground where we must live. And continue to live. I can do no better than take up my shovels, real and imagined, and plant, and plant, and spread what is still a miraculous, organic thing. My heart, its seeds, its knowing. For like yours, it has been collecting every rose petal, and every word spoken in kindness, and encouragement. We are not made of stone, though this world grinds down the best, so they might think it so. Lucky for us, we flower every day, which only others can tell us, and we cannot tell ourselves. So, I’ll pick these last flowers for you, so you won’t forget. In the long dark winter days and nights ahead, let’s continue, to give what we can. There is no such thing, as time. Only now, which is the best time. For folded paper animals, dreams planted in pots on the window sill, fancy cakes, a plucked note or string of stars, golden apples and likewise, tiny goodnesses, to share.”
