the countless seeds we place together
take a leaf in your hand... surrendering to become again
As I walk through the gardens, I consistently think about the resilience and independence of the plants.
Sometimes I feel like tending a garden is completely selfish. Yet, like bees gathering nectar from flowers, I gather seeds. Spreading them widely, expanding relationships, and cultivating this ecosystem with intention is my homage to the miracle of our co-creations.
I look up and wonder if the hawk calling to me as it spirals upward is reminding me to see my place in all of it differently. I hear it sound again as the wind blows across bare trees. Sometimes all I see in November is emptiness and exposure. It's like standing on a cliff edge with the wind blowing.
I feel a swift changing pace as I move about. My first feeling is nostalgia. I can still feel my bare skin soaking up the morning sun in July. If I could return for just a moment to that hot summer day, could I feel the heat without resisting it and thank it for its warmth?
The natural world feels more quiet and settled now. Colors are rusty and muted. When our vision isn’t fixated by vibrant colors, does that activate our inward seeing?
I take a bronze colored leaf in my hand, seemingly abandoned as it was dropped from its source, dried by the sun, and now soaked with late Autumn rain. This leaf and countless other leaves have been released to the earth from their tree mother who nurtured them all summer.
They transitioned to honey soaked gold and ruby in their brightest moment, just before the cycle was over. But is anything truly over? As the leaves fell, the earth opened its arms and here they are breaking down and alchemizing even more.
They’re letting go even more.
Letting go until they become one again with the soil they grew from before. What a beautiful ending, to begin. What a surrendering, to become again.
There's one thing about this darker season — it feels like an important conclusion for me on these short days, to say goodnight to the light. If I’m inside, I go out again, or at least open the door for a moment as the sun sets.
Tonight, I was thinking about the bulbs I've planted that only bloom after immersing themselves six inches deep in the soil during the cold and dark of winter. In Mary Oliver’s words “Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.”
To hands in the soil. To this resilient co-creation. To the countless seeds we place together.
If you’re in the western Pennsylvania area, there’s a few upcoming events at Forest & Flowers Retreat — a Winter Wreath Workshop to handcraft an earth honoring wreath for the season, and a Winter Solstice Circle for a soulful gathering of connection, intention, and reflection. Click below for details.
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Good day Jenni. I loved this autumn adjustment of saying good night to the light, I will begin this practice tonight! "There's one thing about this darker season — it feels like an important conclusion for me on these short days, to say goodnight to the light. If I’m inside, I go out again, or at least open the door for a moment as the sun sets."