THOUGHTS ABOUT THE FALL GARDEN ON A SUNDAY MORNING


I imagine I can sense the earth’s vibrations in my fall garden, something profound about the perennials dying back this time of year. Something about dormancy, rest. I look at the yellowed hostas, the bared earth where the fall crocus spread their waxy-cupped blossoms just  a short time ago. I look at the little slope by the back fence where Loren and I planted tulip bulbs last week and in my mind’s eye I can see those bulbs, their pointed tips doing whatever it is they need to do, sitting in the darkness four inches beneath the surface of the soil. And I imagine brilliant reds and yellows in spring.

I think of the words in an email from the local yoga teacher whose class I go to on Monday mornings: To pause, to rest, to breathe, to begin again. My garden knows better than I do how to do those simple things..