A Change in Season
No matter how much I love the garden, the time always comes to let go. At the beginning of the year, when an unexpected warm day pokes it head into February’s door with the promise of spring, I begin to dream and plan for what I will plant. I envision not only the initial planting, but fantasize of a second summer planting that will keep the supply of cucumbers and tomatoes coming long past August and into September. I even fancy the possibility of fall greens and root vegetables.
In the spring, when my hands place the seeds and new transplants into the rich, warm dirt, I have no inkling that I’ll tire of tending them. The rows of vegetation are neat and clean, and I’m awed day by day at the growth and vitality of each thriving plant. Then, as July slips into August and the mercury hits its peak, I find myself looking forward to a break from the constant responsibilities of watering and pest control. By the end of August, the tomatoes have grown leggy and brown, their gangly limbs doubling over the sides of their cages. Tiny green tomato balls have kept me hanging on long past their expiration date in hopes of just a few more tomato sandwiches. Cucumber leaves crumble and the vines bear only weirdly misshapen fruit not fit for consumption. The only things that continues to bear prolifically are the okra and zinnias. Still, I put off the task of ripping the wearied plants from the ground reasoning that the butterflies will miss the zinnias.
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: ... a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;”
September finds me still wavering between holding on and letting go. At this point even the zinnias have grown heavy and tired, almost drooping to the ground despite the crisscrossed lines of jute I’ve put into place to anchor them. Finally, one afternoon in the middle of the month, I say to myself, “That’s enough.” Donning my gloves, I head to the garden intent on ending it all. I begin with the tomatoes, then move to a sad watermelon vine that never produced more than a softball-sized melon. Several clumps of spent marigolds are next. All around me butterflies dance while a pleasant breeze ruffles pine needles overhead. A hummingbird zips past like a bomber on a mission.
I consider the zinnias, mostly a mass of spent blooms with splashes of color here and there. Some have leaves shredded by a tiny, striped worm I’ve battled throughout the season. These old-fashioned flowers, grown from seed gathered by dead-heading last year’s blooms, have been a balm and constant reminder of God’s goodness. It’s clear they’re past their peak. Still, the butterflies will miss them.
In my periphery a green blur is uncomfortably close. I pull off my glasses to find an inch worm working his way across the top rim of the frame. Using my gloved forefinger and thumb, I pluck it off and set it in the rich soil, then gather my resolve and my garden shears and begin to snip the jute. One by one, I pull the beloved zinnias from the ground and place them on the burn pile.
It’s hard to let go sometimes, to transition into a new season. I look wistfully at the naked earth that only minutes before had been mostly covered with cages, vines, and foliage. The bare dirt is a canvas. Upon it, I will dream and plan, and eventually, sow seed. Soon a new year will be here, and I’ll begin thumbing through seed catalogs and looking at the almanac waiting for the right time. I console myself with that thought, and the one stalk of zinnias I left for the butterflies.