05 Nov November
This evening I kneeled amongst the zinnias, cutting stalks back to the soil. Tuesday night brought the season’s first hard frost, last night everything froze completely. For the first time this season, I stood amidst the flower beds and everything was quiet.
The unbroken chorus of the birds and bugs, the perpetual humming of life, the drone of creatures under a hot sun, all replaced by reverberating stillness.
I stood looking around at everything and felt strangely alone, admiring the fragile beauty of the cosmos, their frozen blossoms hanging like cupcake liners. The zinnias, unaccompanied by the dance of honeybees and zebra swallowtails, stood undisturbed with their sepia toned petals, their leaves hanging heavy below them. And then the centaurea, remarkably cold hardy, blooming bright blue amidst a sea of monochrome.
I put my hands in the soil, the remnants of compost and straw and snapdragon roots that we cut back in June before the next round of transplants took their place. Beside me the sunflowers hung their heavy heads, their petals all but gone and their seeds carried away by the birds. The last time it was this quiet out here was before Teddy was born, when Ethan and I were prepping spring beds for the first rounds of stock and snapdragons.
And now, somehow, it’s November. And the newborn that I carried around while trying to weed and water and harvest (keyword: try) is now a busy, happy, babbling almost-seven-month-old who can’t wait to crawl so that he can torment our border collie, Silas. And it’s the time of year to start all over again, prepping everything for another year of growing beautiful things. As much as I love the frantic work at the height of summer, with its heat and bright colors and the smell of the dirt – there is something magical about these cooler days. That’s one of the best parts about this business – the constant change, the call to be present and think ahead at the same time. During the summer I’m planning fall crops and ordering bulbs. During the fall I’m planning for the spring, and in the spring I’m preparing to do it all over again.
I often think of the cyclical nature of flower farming as a theatrical performance. The majority of the work is spent in the off-season, behind the scenes. The playwright writing scripts, the actors learning their parts, the orchestra rehearsing their piece, the stagehands setting props. All of this for an hour or two of magic, a bloom of art that captures our attention before returning to the real world. Flowers, too, have their stage time; a few days, or weeks, of color and fragrance and texture, all the culmination of months of prepping and planning.
As the season comes to a close, we are busy with behind the scenes work. Ordering seed for the 2022 season, taking care of the perennials already in the ground, cleaning up beds and laying compost. November is when I try to clear my head to stare at Excel for long periods of time, clinging to my cup of coffee, organizing crop plans and seeding schedules. As I look around at the flowers of this season, soon to be composted, I’m already imagining what this space will look like next year, filled again with anticipation at what the new season will bring. And I’m also trying to just stand here, not thinking, not imagining, just being amongst the flowers that helped carry me through a crazy season, the plants that gave me so much.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the support of every single individual who bought flowers this year. Whether you picked up flowers at the farmer’s market or ordered something special for an event, your support meant the world to me. As I plan for the 2022 season, I can’t wait to share the new ventures I will be embarking on with this little business. I hope to share more in the coming months including expanded product offerings and new markets.
But for now, it’s time to lay mulch over the hardy annuals and burgeoning perennials. It’s time to take a deep, cool breath of autumn air, and listen to the quiet that this season brings.
