At Summer’s End
As we near the start of September we begin to notice changes: that puppy-bite of cold in the early morning; the slow turn of flowers into seed heads, painting our landscape in shades of brown; the return of children to school under trees the colors of fire. Summer bicycles slowly off down the lane as autumn comes around the corner, whistling.
As gardeners—whether of a plot, a few pots, or a balcony—summer felt full to bursting with color, forms, shapes, saturated greens and the ripe weight of abundance. Vegetables took off, swelling into shape. Flowers grew with abandon, erupting into blooms of every shape and color. It seemed as soon as one flower died down another was already there, dancing onto the stage. Spring and summer are busy times for the gardener, with sowing seeds and resowing seeds, preparing beds, planting, potting, pruning, harvesting…and repeat. Herbs are cut generously for summer meals and flowers are gathered and brought indoors, to bring a bit of the wild summer garden even closer.
The busyness of our summer seems to echo the busyness of nature’s summer. It’s easy to be so busy in the garden that it’s hard to stop, look, see, and enjoy.
But nature is, of all things, consistent. Consistent in the inexorable, inevitable turn of one season to the next; to keep the onward flow of life moving forward, always.
When we’re in tune with nature—and gardening is arguably one of the best ways to be so—our concept of time is affected: instead of thinking of the year in solely fiscal terms, or in terms of work deliverable deadlines, or even our children’s school year, we instead are gently funneled into time as a four-quartered, slowly evolving and revolving experience.
As summer cycles off into the distance, so too go the firework shows of many flower species, annual herbs, and showy perennials. Their foliage browns, wilts, and drops. The flowers and herbs, after having courted company with pollinators for months, complete their necessary work of regeneration; offering their seeds to the wind, the soil, and our careful collection. Slowly green trades places with beige and brown. The level of gardens slowly lowers, and clears, as herbaceous plants lose their leaves. Sightlines change. The bones of our living gardens start to show.
Nature above all, is a loyal, patient, reliable teacher. She shows us, year after year, how we are nature, too. We too need cycles of change and difference: times of new growth and experimental forays, then tremendous bounty and activity, then a slowing to notice, observe, finish up, followed by a critical deep rooting, a cooling off, a time to step back and take stock, plan, and prepare.
When viewed this way, summer’s end no longer is tinged with sadness, and winter is no longer dreaded. Autumn doesn’t feel like a kind of protracted dying, and summer doesn’t feel like a heat-saturated fever dream. Instead, we are simply part of it all: we can choose to align ourselves and our lives with nature’s rhythm, and in so doing not ignore our responsibilities and obligations, but rather give those very things four different seasons and perspectives. Aligning with nature can be empowering.
Maybe when we look around us now, as autumn comes toward us, whistling, basket in hand, we can feel the beauty of this unfolding into a new season. We can slow, bring things to a close, tie up loose ends, observe and clear our heads. Aligning ourselves with this season can feel authentic. It can be the most natural thing in the world.