embracing autumn intentionally: going slow

It was an errand kind of day: shopping, picking up the dog, sorting bills, cutting back the brush in the wetlands, planning the week's menu, spot painting the house in anticipation of fall and winter, and learning the melody of a tune I'll play at the wedding of some friends at L'Arche Ottawa. The light at eventide here is magical as patches of late sun and looming shadows fill the field.

Increasingly, the wetlands are all muted browns, gray-greens with a hint of red or yellow sneaking into view. I helped our tomatoes today as they had fully overwhelmed their initial cages and trellises. We have hundreds of not ripe tomatoes waiting on the vine, but they need another few weeks of sunlight. All bets are off whether they'll make it as the temperature dipped into the low 40's Fahrenheit last night. To give them a fighting chance, however, and to savor their potential sweetness, I wired them to 6 new birch saplings - and now we'll see. With 21 more days left in September we might luck out and get a bumper crop. Otherwise, there will be a ton of green tomato sauce in the making. That would be fine, too. Seems that I engage my vegetables and herbs this autumn much like Bruce Weigl does his deer.

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed.

I watch the woods for deer who never come.

I know the hes and shes in autumn

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work

so I may let the crows in corn believe

it’s me their caws are meant to warn,

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves

they know me too. They know the boy

who lives inside me still won’t go away.

The deer are ghosts who slip between the light

through trees, so you may only hear the snap

of branches in the thicket beyond hope.

I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed.

And then there are the red chili peppers. Jalapenos to be precise. They keep on keeping on; there are another 12 or so ready for picking with four or five green ones about to pop. So I'm going to try to make a mini-ristra: a hanging display of red chili peppers. I saw some at Marché Jean-Talon last week in Montréal and took a few pix so that I might give it a go. I have another dozen sitting on the cutting table from earlier in the summer. It will make a great splash of color and flavor for our autumn and winter kitchen. When we lived in Tucson - and went to Northern New Mexico to camp - we would always return with two or three huge ristras that hung on the back porch filling the air with their indescribable aroma. NOTE: if you ever get the chance to go to Hatch, NM in late August or early September, take it! The smell of roasting chili peppers saturates the town in the most heavenly way.

And then there's my pumpkins - or more honestly my one pumpkin. The vines are huge. The blossoms are beautiful. But only one little pie pumpkin has arrived to share its beauty. There is a fungus from too sandy soil that has probably wounded the fruit that might have been. Its virulent and hasn't yet responded to any of the sprays I've tried. It also looks like the deer have visited and munched away some of the flowers while we were away, too. Next year we will have a very different pumpkin patch with much healthier soil and lots more mulch and water. Over the fall/winter we will be doing research and sketches re: the next steps to take in our small garden for peace. I want it to be a place of serenity and fun, a place our grandchildren can join me in as we learn together about the bounty of Mother Earth.

I am thinking a great deal about those two precious children today: earlier this summer Anna turned two and just last week Louie started first grade. In a month he will be six. It hardly seems possible, but I know it is true; as I watch and listen to the garden and the fields it is clear that everything is ripening and moving on - my little ones as much as the plants, trees, fields and sky. And yet it still feels like just last week when I sent their momma off for her first day in first grade in her green tweed coat, red corduroy jumper and Army green backpack. I saved this poem by Olivia Stiffler because it hit hard and rang true.

While I Was Sleeping by Olivia Stiffler

my daughter's hair
turned gray.
Great nieces and nephews
returned from college
some with degrees
some with babies
some with the same bad habits.
My granddaughter
wore a boyfriend
handcuffed to her wrist.
My husband grew cataracts
and seemed confused.
As was I
waking to this drama
having skipped whole scenes
afraid
of the set-change crew.

In the on-line wisdom school class with Cynthia Bourgeault she is leading us into

the practices of the Benedictine tradition: ora et labora. Prayer and work. She considers, "The Benedictine tradition (to be) the strongest tradition we have in Christianity on which to create a template of conscious awakening leading to what we would call in the West or in the East today, non-dual attainment or enlightenment—full presence." It is the practice of being in solitude and community, prayer and activity, worship and action, contemplation and engagement. Those in my spiritual direction cohort used to say that contemplation is taking a long, loving look at what is real. And that long, loving look not only sorted out what could and must be changed, but what was truly beyond the realm of possibilities. The way of St. Benedict is a direct link to some of the wisdom that was distilled by the Desert Mothers and Fathers of the fourth century. Our study material notes that: The balance that is found between prayer and work and between being alone and in community is the balance of a whole person. With that balance, identity exists at a deeper level than, for instance, what one does for a living. (Wisdom School, CAC)

My body is excited that fall is coming. The air feels crisp. The apples have arrived. Soon the pumpkins will, too. The trees are teaching me again about the beauty of letting go. Ora et labora is part of the wisdom of God's first word: creation. Tomorrow there will be more small chores to share. Conversations and prayers, too. May I enter them all with slow intentionality and savor their gifts.