Facing Winter

The end has been coming for a long time, and now it is finally upon us. Many of the leaves have already fallen from the trees to drift down the creek or gather in the furrows in the fields. The shorter days limit our work in the field, unless we are willing to use headlights. Our skin dries in the north wind, the fire crackles, and brilliant reds and yellows glow like embers of a dying fire. A sense of urgency surrounds us.

The deepening of the fall encourages reflection in a world spinning madly out of control. In a way more intense than before, we notice the changing of the seasons, the certainty of darkness and of light. The sweetness of carrots rings clearly on the tongue. We feel the gathering-in of the soil at some primitive level, the rich, earthy smell wafting through the evening air. The muffled, tearing sound of sheep eating contrasts the honking of southward-bound geese. We relish one last tomato. And maybe, if we glance in the right direction at just the right moment, we’ll notice the setting sun shining above a valley floor cast in shadow, illuminating a dying elm on the hillside. Then it’s gone. The fleeting beauty unique to this season reminds us of the fragility of everything we have worked so hard to build.

As with so many things, the end of the season is predictable and expected from the very start. We plant with the end of the season in mind, placing the peas in the ideal spot to precede a last crop of salad, and setting out the Brussels sprouts where they won’t hinder the harvest of quicker crops. At times we look forward to the season’s end, especially under an intense July heat wave. And whenever the weather the weather is cooler than normal, we anticipate the hearty sweetness of kale, the texture of winter squash, and the glow of a fire on a cold night.

The falling of leaves foretells the bleak landscape of winter that often seems to go on without end through both time and space, but it is not without faith in the spring to come. The spinach for harvest next spring will wait patiently under the snow cover. The garlic that we planted this week will hear whispers of spring lying just around the corner, and know that life and the rebirth of the world is never far from the death and destruction of the fall, the darkness of the winter.