As high summer fades

As the days grow shorter and the heat of high summer begins to mellow, there's a palpable shift in the air. It's that time when the vibrant greens of July start to deepen, hinting at the golds and reds of autumn. The transition from high summer to late summer and early fall is a bittersweet one—a time of reflection and reckoning, especially for those of us who live by the rhythms of the land.

This season has always been a paradox for me. The warmth lingers, but there's a cooling beneath it, a sense of something ending even as the garden is still alive with growth. The tomatoes are ripening, the squash is sprawling, but there's a nagging awareness that the peak has passed. We are on the downward slope now, and as I look out over the fields, I can't help but see the battles I've lost.

I had such grand plans for this growing season—dreams of abundance, of perfectly timed harvests, of a garden that would provide more than enough. But nature, as it so often does, had other ideas. The heat hit too early, the rains too late. The weeds, which I swore I would stay on top of, gained ground while I was preoccupied with other tasks. The crops that I had hoped would flourish are struggling, their leaves curling in the heat, their growth stunted by conditions beyond my control.

There was a time when I would have fought harder, throwing everything I had into the fight to salvage what I could. But this season has taught me a different lesson: sometimes, it's not about winning every battle. Sometimes, it's about choosing the right ones to fight.

As we move from high summer into the cusp of fall, I'm learning to let go of the perfect garden I had imagined. Instead, I'm leaning into what remains—what's still thriving despite the setbacks, what's still worth nurturing. The tomatoes are thriving, sweet and full of flavor. The kale, though chewed by insects, is resilient, sending up new leaves even now.

And the buckthorn, the bane of my fields, has found itself up against a team of unlikely allies—Gus, Maggie, Ellie, and Marvin the Martian, my determined little goats who relish in the task of clearing it away.

In this season of transition, I'm coming to terms with the fact that I can't control everything, that some things are simply out of my hands. And that's okay. There is grace in letting go, in embracing the imperfections, and in finding beauty in what remains.

The garden may not be what I envisioned, but it's still alive, still giving. And as the days shorten and the air cools, I'm finding peace in that. This is the season of acceptance, of choosing battles that aren't too far gone, and of finding joy in the small victories. As high summer fades into late summer and early fall, I'm learning to appreciate the subtle, slower rhythms of the land and to savor the fruits of a season that, while imperfect, is still filled with gifts.

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