Summer

It is the long, slow, hot days of summer now, and the garden wilts beneath each afternoon's hazy sunlight. It might seem to the casual glance of those speeding down the lane, traveling to and from some distant workplace, that the major crop must surely be some great tall weed and sunflowers perhaps, so pervasive is their presence. Yet at closer inspection the truth is found: tomatoes, large and blushing into ripeness, beets just skirting the edges of each bed, with onions, peppers and beans hiding in plane sight. The melons, so wild in their growth, have consumed a huge swath and for all intent look like a creeping green invasion, but nestled under the vines hide sweet golden orbs, daring only the most determined to find them. Long past is the time for cukes, peas and leafy salad greens, only the kale and the strange looking kohlrabi continue to push up their new leaves in despite of the heat. The blackberries, cherries and early apples are just a memory, gone almost in the blink; and the corn! Oh the glorious corn! Gone to with never enough, it seems, for simple eating, let alone canning for winter's use. Resolve, yet again, plant more corn next year.



The fall seeds have begun to fill out their trays, promising cool season greens, while the spring planted carrots and parsnips remain in hiding until first frost when they will begin to make their appearance, adding goodness to soul warming winter soups and stews. The potatoes are still buried, soon to be uncovered and the dry beans nearly ready to make their way into the barn to dry over winter; hanging from the rafters along side the garlic, and early onions. All of which dangle above stacks and stacks of sweet smelling hay.



The calendar still shows plenty of summer left, and yet the garden whispers of coming cool nights and ever shortening days. The yearly waltz between nature and gardener is slowing, the the dance movements tracing the future patterns of scarlet and gold trees, the lazy drift of woodsmoke, and heaps of compost steaming in the frosty air.



I lean on my hoe (for leaning is the hoe's first purpose of course) as I pause in my work and dream a while of hot coco, toasty toes wrapped in thick wool sock, stretched out before the fire, and, within arms reach, piles of glorious seed catalogs filled with mysterious names such as Eva Purple Ball or Mr. Stripey tomatoes, Rainbow kale, or Yukon Gold potatoes. Ahhh, life could not be more perfect!



To garden is to participate, directly and with full awareness, in the processes of life. The garden is a sacred space, where life springs forth, matures, and then recedes. Where perceived endings are, in reality, new beginnings.



With soil stained hands, Love from the garden. RLT