I have blog post drafts that don’t seem appropriate in the context of this autumn, 2020. I don’t know about you, but I can easily feel that I am a little boat tossed about in a wild sea. There are few calm days; almost every day is filled with news of upcoming elections, of political ploys, Covid-19, wildfires, hurricanes, economic struggle, loneliness and isolation. (And that might be a short list!)
While stories of hope, beauty, courage and community building may be more difficult to find, they’re present, like treasure in the bottom of the sea, and we may have to work a little harder to find them and allow them to balance out the blaring, often negative headlines.
I persist in believing that whatever happens this fall, and into the winter and beyond, we are more sturdy and resilient than we know. If we are feeling tossed about, we must go deeper to get anchored, must find and use all available internal and external resources to manage and maybe, at times, even do well in this season of chaos and uncertainty.
So I’m going to post short, quickly written poems that reflect my own process and observations for the next while. I hope you can find something in here to relate to.
Today’s is about my little side garden, because nothing calms me more than watching life’s trustworthy cycles through the lens of tending to soil.
Last days to comfortably sit
on porch or patio,
the breeze cool,
the angle of light slanting,
whispering “darker, colder, slower.”
The tomato plants are browning
the cucumbers have been pulled,
the beans are barely producing.
But the zinnias remain colorful and lush,
orange, magenta, pink and poppy-red.
And the snow peas are racing
up their trellis
as if fully planning to beat
the first frost
with sweet, plump pods.
The garden is clueless about Covid.
Brenda Hartman-Souder, September 2020