Amy in the Garden

It is hard, often, to stay grounded. (And yes, that will probably be the first of many puns in this post.)

I have to keep reminding myself that as this season of work and holiday gears up, my garden is winding down and I don’t want to miss that. Winding down is a season unto itself. It becomes almost entirely about the earth, rather than springtime’s delight at the green emerging from the dark brown, summer’s green clamoring for complete attention, and autumn’s restored balance of brown and ripened green. Winter is only about the earth, and I hope that I will be smart about it.

I am composting the spent plants from my garden. Some went into my squash hills, my most ambitious new venture for next year. The more tender of the plants went into the compost bin, along with equal parts straw and grass clippings. (The lawn is also now spent, so I’ve seen the last of those hot-cookin’ clippings for this year.) The sturdier stalks and vines of the peppers, basil and beans are composting quietly on their own in a heap next to the bin. Denied the acknowledgment of worth that being included inside the plastic walls of the bin might suggest, they are expected to conduct their business exposed, as all Nature does regularly, on their own. They are not expected to rejoin the garden until perhaps a year has passed. The only privacy they can look forward to is being buried under the stalks I plan to cut this weekend, from the perennials in my flower garden. The milkweed, echinacea, rudbeckia and monarda have given up their seeds to the finches, and their job is done. Time for them to join the pile and add to next year’s intelligence with the earth.

I will take down the trellis netting soon, and pull the last of the weeds from the beds. I will sprinkle straw over each bed as it is put to rest for the winter. I feel like I am pulling the covers up under each bed’s chin, tucking it in. Do the worms and microbes appreciate this attention? I guess I’ll have to wait a few months to find out, to see how vigorously the earth rewards the seeds and seedlings I plant.

I am also trying to be intelligent about my planning for the earth for next year. Sketching the beds in my journal, trying to apply the recommended principles of rotation gardening, and most happily, reading and re-reading my two seed catalogs. Keep your J. Crewe, J. Peterman, and Patagonia photo spreads and clever copy. I am trying to be smart with my Johnny’s Selected Seeds and Seed Savers Exchange’s focused copy on height, sun requirements and modest descriptions of both taste and history.

Consider this: have you ever bought a sweater described as “heirloom”? Has a pair of socks ever traveled the country in a covered-wagon, and been passed down through the generations? Oh, Lina Cisco’s Birds Egg Beans, I’ll take you over a cami any day. My fashion sense resides in my garden, in every season, in words like “mould” that become beautiful with extra vowels and their promise of growth.

The days are shorter and the nights are longer, because the earth is smart enough to know that you can’t have energy without rest. Winding down, indeed. Not if you think about it.

WORDS FROM OTHERS

“Shall I not have intelligence with the earth?
Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?”

— Henry David Thoreau