Everyone loves a garden in springtime but what about in fall?

The sunflower stooped like a disheveled wedding guest at two in the morning, messy and wilting in the jarring and unnatural light of a camera flash. Presumably she looked composed and majestic hours ago, but now her head hung messily at my breastbone. Later it dropped to my navel. Hers was a false yellow, artificially overexposed in the beam of my headlamp as I picked lettuce and kale in the dark. It was near midnight, the day drawing to a close. Under the full moon, the sight of the feral, dwindling garden told me that summer too was finishing. It pained me to see the vegetables, lovingly tended, now falling into disrepair and waste. As I left the garden with the bowl of greens in my arm, I stepped on a wayward tomato, and felt it squish under my boot. The next day, the sunflower’s once-grand golden head, with her petals chewed by mice, fell to the soil. 

Everyone loves a garden in springtime, with the smell of fresh soil, the drip of melting snow, and the promise of warmth. In the summer, people tend to their burgeoning plants in between too many social plans, and proudly pick a tomato and hold it lovingly to their face, remarking that is what a real tomato smells like. In fall, though, the gardens remain in our backyards and balconies, but without the same excitement or pride. They devolve into eyesores, or maybe reminders that warm months and bright days are behind us. This year, I’ve spent more time in my garden in the autumn than I did in any other season. Rather than simple green, she boasts yellow, red, brown, green, and crispy black. I’ve watched how her wayward tangles of zucchini leaves handily overtook their neighbours, even as the celery stalks stayed stunted. They never really grew, though last year’s were tall and wide. Tomato vines ran riot, breaking under the weight of their own success, and cucumbers played creatively with shape and prickles. I watched curiously as the plants in the garden engaged in conflict and debated the seasons: the dry, curled brown leaves of the leeks argued that it was indeed fall, as the cold mornings suggested. The abundant tomatoes, on the other hand, seemed to side with the warm afternoons and the persistent song of crickets, all in agreement that it was still summer.

A few days after I spent my night with moonlight and the fallen sunflower, I again trekked down to the garden, this time in cold rain. It was a grey and soupy Sunday, and 2 pm resembled dusk. I was determined to salvage what food I could from the generous and gracious garden. With my three children, I twisted twelve or more zucchinis from their stalks, piling them in a wheelbarrow that filled to the brim with rainwater as the hours passed. We gathered bowls and bowls worth of tomatoes, after the red ones fell easefully into our hands and the green ones were scooped up before they found themselves underfoot. I stripped witchy, wet dead leaves - their texture like seaweed - from vines and stalks, carefully tending to the garden in a way I had not when she was thriving. Her brittle and bittersweet beauty was made sweeter in the downpour, as the rain washed the muddy vegetables clean. 

Soaked to the bone, I felt a deep and quiet joy, harvesting vegetables in the rain, after their months of soaking up sunlight. I discovered carrots I had written off as a failure, and found long-forgotten onions and garlic. Radishes which I had presumed were too woody turned out to be sharp and delicious. Cabbages finally started to mature, and swiss chard grew yet another surprise harvest. The fall garden, which I mistakenly dismissed as dying and dead, was actually full of vibrant life, when I took the time to watch curiously, clear out the old weight, and extend my care. 

I often receive lessons from the garden, and it is always well worth the effort of abandoning the urgency of screens and zooms to walk barefoot between the overgrown beds of abundant life. The lessons are usually heartening, but now, at the crossing between summer and fall, they grew melancholy. Unclear and muddy like the garden herself. Some lessons felt sad. Even the most cared for homes fall into disrepair when it’s time. You can give your love and not be able to hold onto vitality and summer health. Some came as questions. Did I let the sunny summer pass me by? My sacred garden time, now gone. Did I focus on the right things, or let myself get distracted by noisiness? Is my dying garden a microcosm of the planet I love dearly? Some lessons were more wistful. The passing of time, the essential and undeniable truth of cycles. How to graciously accept endings and the passing of seasons And some lessons brought me peace. The tangle of messy life reminded me that I am worthy of love in my messy imperfection, and in my own cycles of productivity and dreaming. Wisdom came from the garden as she reminded me that - before growing again - she is ready for quiet and wintry rest. Picking the persistent vegetables, I saw that Earth still works to provide even in her waning autumn moments. 

Once the vegetables were gathered and piled on an old painted white table, ready for jarring and sauces, I took another walk through the beds of the garden. They looked fresh. Cared for. I stopped at the lone sunflower, her headless stalk still curved over towards the soil from the weight she used to bear. I wondered where her once-august bloom had landed. I looked casually around the tall stalk, and not seeing the flower head, knelt down in the mud and began to search more vigorously. I pulled watermelon vines and the lily pad leaves of nasturtiums to the side, gently at first and then wildly, unable to find the golden flower. I grew obsessed, for her or maybe for me, and started pulling large uninvited coltsfoot out of the ground to expose the soil. Still I could not find the sunflower. Had it disappeared? I paused and caught my breath, and leaned closer to the Earth. Black shells, burgundy-tipped flesh, yellow petals. Chewed into thousands of pieces, barely discernible from the Earth, the sunflower was already halfway to becoming soil again. The mice must have found the flower in the garden beds, delighted at the gift from above and relieved to be spared the journey up the eight foot stalk. I picked through the debris, the hundreds of husks of chewed shells, and found what I was searching for: the beginning of next year’s garden. A reminder that so much life exists, not only in seasons of warmth and bounty but also in times of heartbreak and change. I picked it up and placed it in my hand: one whole and perfect seed.