Plants are fun. “Did you see this guy’s new growth?” I ask, holding up an asparagus-like stalk from a plant a friend gifted me.
“No, I didn’t.” I’m not a mind reader, but Dave’s attention to my plants is close to zero—about the same as the attention I give to his fish. “What, one’s dead?” Honestly, they all could be, and I wouldn’t know.
Just now, I caught a whiff of smoke—like a cozy campfire, s’mores and all. The scent instantly carried me back to starry nights by the fire, laughing with people I love. But sitting on my bed, in my house, the smell turned quickly from nostalgic to concerning. I lifted my nose high and pulled in deep lungfuls to test the air. False alarm.
Out in the yard, the grass has slowed to almost nothing. With evening lows in the 50s and 60s, the warmth it needs is gone. I love fall—today I pulled on my long overalls—but it brings a shift. That go-go-go, buzzing energy around the yard is fading. It feels like something is being sucked out of me, the way you slurp an oyster off its shell.
I’ll adjust. Eventually. But first, I’ll cling to the way things were—to the ease of planting a seed and seeing it sprout almost overnight. To the abundance of berries, flowers, and butterflies. Slowly, they’ll disappear into their underground lairs, and I’ll forget how magical they felt. I’ll bring seeds and plants inside, do my best to keep them alive through fall and winter. It’ll be a little annoying compared to the ease of sun and sprinklers doing the work for me.
At some point, I’ll settle into the nothingness of the new season—its dormancy, its quiet. I’ll breathe into it, marinate in it. In the chill and the slow, I’ll remember that even stillness grows something in me.
And the wheel spins. The dog’s bones crack. Another day, another week, another season rolls forward. That’s the way it goes—and I’m okay with that.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 