“I am in love with a plant [garlic] that yearns for friendship with each gardener through a succession of three seasons in the field, a plant shaped by personality and flavor.”
-Scott Chaskey, This Common Ground
Autumn is a quiet time of year in a garden, a time for deep reflection. The spider webs hang between yarrow stems that have been bleached yellow in the summer sun. Soon their stems will turn brown and the rustling of the heads along with the persistent song of the robins will be all that haunts the winter garden. This time of year calls on a kind of nostalgia within me, I can’t help but become introspective. I think this turning inward is something that happens naturally, the shortening of days and the coolness in the air calls to some deep need to sit still, to think deeply.
This feeling of introspection follows me to the garlic bed where I plant into thick compost prepared for this very purpose. Planting garlic is always the definition of hope, it gives a purpose to this time of dormancy, knowing that come next summer we will be here again to harvest the crop. There are months where hope can feel far away, but when the rains return in fall I find myself surrendering to the goodness of the water, the feeling that we are washing away the dust and sunburns of summer. As the length of the night increases each day, the feeling of hope can often feel hard fought for, so I look to the small things. The tucking of each clean white clove of garlic in the black compost, like a small crescent moon tucked into the black night of the sky.
Hope does not happen without effort, doing so would bring us no closer to actualizing our dreams. I choose to practice a muscular hope, a wish yes, but also purposeful action that will bring me closer to realizing my wishes. I can’t just plant these small garlic cloves. I am called to return, to weed, to water, and to remove the garlic scapes in the coming months. Only through continued effort and a willingness to show up and observe will my hopes of a bountiful garlic harvest be met.
Garden metaphors are often easier to turn to than the nuances of day to day. I can’t readily skim over the fact that at times things look bleak, that hopelessness often greets me more than hope. Covering issues with a blanket of compost doesn’t work day to day. But when I work at it hard I can find reasons to hope. It’s just that very thing, it takes work. So I set myself to the task with the same vigor with which I plant my garlic. I sit for a while, I let myself be still, a feat in itself. I watch the leaves drift down from branches, I listen to the sounds of laughter in the distance. Watch a praying mantis standing still on the branch near my shoulder. I remind myself of how far the garden and I have come. I remind myself of how much more we have to go. This is the hope we reach for each day, it is an act of will, an exercise of effort.
With Love from The Garden,
Shannon
Farm to Table
Our tasting room menu this month features a tasting menu that highlights ingredients grown in our very own estate garden and sourced directly from local producers.