Frost has begun to glaze the lingering tomatoes vines. They drape and bow like beautiful sculptures. Leafy greens look like lace. The grass has a bluish tint to it, as it sits, motionless, with the changing of the season. The clocks have changed. There's a pink glow to the early morning, and a cozy darkness to the evening.
As dormancy settles in, I wanted to look back once more on all the beauty the flower garden gave, to reflect. I'm fortunate that my neighbor, Joseph, has a green thumb and a passion for plants, so this work is his. He fills our building's patio with an ever-changing composition of colors and textures.
The result is a calming place where I have passed many an hour journaling, reading, sipping coffee, sharing meals, and conversing with friends. Julep and Maple loved its patches of sunlight for summertime snoozing, and I love the weathered textures of the building and antiques that peak through the foliage. The garden even inspired me to sketch again.
At first, it's easy to resist the frost, the dark nights, and [my] constant need for more layers, but this season is its own invitation, as I am reminded by my friends.
An avid gardener and friend of mine, Josh, wrote this in a recent post, and it struck me:
"I need to remind myself next year how incredible those first frosty mornings are. The garden takes on a new charm, with a softening of everything; the light on the leaves, the sound of frost dews hitting the fallen leaves, and the wildlife behave in ways that seem more purposeful. It encourages me to pay attention and to be softer, slow down and listen, and be more purposeful, we are part of this natural cyclical world after all. Our garden has finally taken her sigh of relief, and so have I."
There's more to this season than meets the eye, and my herbalist teacher, Alison Garber, captured this transition so well in a recent post:
"The great wheel turns. The hedge between our world and spirit is at its thinnest, allowing us to walk with our Ancestors on this day. The Dark Crone has arrived, demanding the decay of what needs to die, what needs to be returned to the soil. Do not shy away, dear heart. This is Samhain, the shadow time. The great cosmic reset. A time of putting down our tools, our goals, our plans in order to reflect. And rest."
Reflecting on the flower garden and changing landscape reminds me to embrace the seasons, the shifts, the rest. More beauty will come, but the decay, the shedding is necessary. What will I cherish and keep? What will I shed? What new growth will emerge next spring after this season of quiet? I will just have to wait and see.