What Summer Leaves Behind

Abundance — On enough, gratitude, and what is already here.

I've learned something special. Something so gratifying.

When summer ends, it still lingers. And I am here for it.

What do I mean?

A walk through my backyard is evidence of the abundance I have right here. I have soil, plants and trees, insects, birds and squirrels.

My herb garden flourishes well beyond the first frost, with the promise that it will remain, and I will tend to it again.

Photo: Late October in the garden

Dried wildflower heads burst with seeds for birds, while insects find places to shelter through winter.

The simple knowledge that my garden will return is a constant comfort in my life, even while it sleeps. I find myself looking out the window, thinking about it, imagining it, planning for it. Wondering how this will finally be the year I won't let things get away from me. The year I'll have the most beautiful garden I've ever grown.

And there they are again. Those pesky, unrealistic expectations.

And here is where I find the abundance.

I look around and realize that I own soil. I have trees of my very own. There are wildflowers sleeping beneath the ground that will return, and fruit trees growing a little more each year. There will be insects and animals making their lives here, sharing this little piece of the world with me. This is a rich life. 

Here, at my very own home.

Will it snow in November? Oh, how I hope so. In fact, I hope it snows all winter long. The thought of watching snow fall outside my windows, settling over my place, my space, fills me with anticipation. The same garden I've spent months tending will become something entirely different, and I'll have a front-row seat to watch it happen.

Each year I gather about 50% of the seeds to sow and save. I leave the rest for the birds and insects.

Photo: My garden throughout the year in seeds.  Milkweed, echinacea, monarda, lupine, columbine, false sunflowers.