Types of Gardens

As a reminder…

There are many types of “gardens”. Gardens are designed, installed, and tended differently, but what I mean specifically is this: every garden has a different end. 

It might frame the sculpture in front of you suburban home.
It may be a play area for young children in the back yard. 
It may simply be drainage for the pool you recently installed. 

It seems the supreme segregator of all gardens is not shape, size, or location. Instead, it’s whether they are intended to provide edible foliage. 

All gardens are for consumption at one level. Some for the eyes. Others for the mouth. My garden is unapologetically for eating, and I’ve made a commitment to methodically remove any plant that doesn’t serve this purpose. 

This year I’ll be reflecting on the intersections between food, gardening, and spirituality, which means I’ll be spending a lot of time sharing about my yard (and the food I grow in my garden!).

Fall Sunsets

[Seasons: Autumn VI]

Fall evenings are special. 

The earth holds the warmth of the sun like it’s still summer, but the air carries a winter warning to it. Days are warm and evenings are cool. Fall is often the season we become aware of the “degrees" of a sunset. 

Pre-sunset is bright and glittery with a hint of finality. It’s like a sunset appetizer, whetting the visual pallet. The bottom of leaves catch sun rays differently than they do form the high sun of the summer, causing a green glow wherever there is a stand of trees. 

Post-sunset, long before twilight, offers a special restfulness without the pressure of full darkness. Unlike pre-sunset or mid-sunset, this is often when the world is painted with violet hues, the sun low enough to offer artistic beauty but no heat.  

Colors are bold during mid-sunset, and yet in the fall, they are never oppressive. Also, within each day, the horizon’s stage changes set every two minutes. (If you ever sit still long enough to watch the sunset for a half hour, try this exercise: at mid-sunset close your eyes for a five minutes or more—the longer the better. When you open them, you will experience a different scene. You get the gift of more than one sunset on the same night.) 

Fall sunsets are a reminder that beauty is complex. It’s renewable and always evolving. It can’t be hoarded nor can it be commodified. It can only be experienced, appreciated, and shared. 

Artificial Light

[Seasons: Autumn IV]

After the summer solstice, days begin to shorten, but it’s not until the fall that we see the effects of less sun on the farm. The chicken egg production, for example, takes a noticeable dip. We could add artificial light to the chicken coop to maintain high productivity, but we choose not to. Honoring the circadian rhythms of chickens, while negatively effecting immediate output of eggs, is easily made up for in their longterm health (and happiness). 

Somewhere in late October or early November, I notice that my morning routine requires artificial light. This is a critical milestone in the cycle of the seasons because artificial light not only gives light where natural darkness ought to be, it disconnects us from the natural timing of the sun, and therefor from nature. 

Chicken egg output increases but their longevity decreases under conditions dictated by artificial light. It makes me wonder what the longterm effects might be of flipping on all those LEDs two hours before the sun awakens. I’m no luddite, but I’m growing more aware of the drawbacks of living a life disconnected from nature. 

Often times the darkest place is just on the edge of the brightest (artificial) light. And from within the light, it’s impossible to see. What darkness is our artificial light blinding us too? 

Challenging (Death) Assumptions

[Seasons: Autumn III]

We hold a tremendous amount of assumptions about death, and it seems that autumn challenges most of them. 

Death is final. Actually, death is the the interim before the bursting of new life. 

Death is ugly. Not so, if you’ve ever watched a deciduous tree show off its colors before leaves die and fall to the earth. 

Death is scary. Winter can be scary; preparation is the antidote, and Autumn is the season for prepping. 

Death is private. Autumn reminds us that the ending of life can be a time of celebration.

Death is meaningless. Without it there would be no new life, as Autumn tells us. 

Death is the end. Autumn is part of a cycle of death/resurrection.  

Death is gross. Gross is often the consequence of ignorance. Autumn is a great teacher, but it won’t force us to learn. What is natural is only gross until we become curious. 

New Possibilities

[Seasons: Autumn II]

Autumn is a season of slow dying, as the earth crawls toward the long silence of winter. Grasses dry out and eventually with lay flat and lifeless for months. Trees lose their leaves, as a sacrifice to the earth’s soil. The flowers have long been laid to rest. The vegetables are harvested and the stocks and vines given to the decaying pile of compost. Everything dries out and slows down, bracing for winter. 

Nature responds in a curious way during this winter preparation. She scatters seeds—a hope-filled act in the face of slow death. She excessively invests in future seasons of life. 

When death and decline are all around, new possibilities are being sown. 

While one season ends another is already on its way. 

Generations of Insight

[Seasons: Autumn I]

There are distinct changes when autumn arrives to the farm. Some things are obvious: the sun rises a bit later and dusk descends earlier, the garden is equal parts weeds and vegetables, the grass is noticeably brown (admittedly a PNW phenomenon), and the Big Leaf maples have a tinge of yellow in their leaves. Some traits of autumn are less visibly obvious, but the "seasonal sense" we’ve developed over millions of years of living *with* the seasons tells us the earth is tilting and change is immanent. 

There’s a quality to the air that changes. Because the sun is out for fewer hours and it’s lower in the horizon, it doesn’t heat up the landscape as much. So, the sun may register a certain temperature on the thermometer, but the goosebumps on our skin has a different reading. The thermal temperature of the ground, the large conifers, and the farm house is much lower and therefore put off less heat. Wind gusts increase from the calm of summer, the dew level heightens, humidity slightly increases, but the rains have not yet returned. All this gives the air a “denser" quality. Our bodies can sense it. 

The sun’s rays “transform" in autumn. Sure, on a color wheel, they may register the same, but how they “interact” with the world changes. At a lower angle in the sky, the sun refracts differently off the leaves and blades of grass, it reveals different aspects of the forest, and casts different shaped and sized shadows. The sun doesn’t change colors but it reveals a whole new palette of hues. Our eyes experience a different landscape and our bodies feel the difference. 

There is so much our bodies observe and know that our contemporary minds don’t compute. Slow down and listen to the intelligence center that is your physical body. It carries in it generation upon generation of insights. 

Bodies Bear the Burden

[Seasons: Summer XXVI]

Summer is the season of minimal clothing. 
Sandels and flip-flops.
T-shirts and tanktops.
Shorts or swim trunks. 
Caps instead of beanies. 

In the winter we fear exposure to the weather, so we bundle up. In the summer we fear exposure to the eyes of others. Covering up is impractical, which means for several months our bodies are exposed.  

Some seasons in life reveal our unhealthy relationships. Summer shows us that we put an unhealthy emphasis on body image and physical appearance. But body image is not a problem with our body per se as much as it’s an indication of an unhealthy relationship with our physical existence, and our bodies bear the burden. 

Do we care so little about our physical health that our bodies are neglected? Physical neglect is often exposed in the summers of life. 

Do we care so much about our physical appearance, that we will go to great lengths (and costs) to shape it into the world’s concept of beauty? Summer seasons hold a mirror to our obsessions with approval, status, and attention. In the mirror, looking back at us, are our insecurities, our fears, and our unaddressed wounds.   

Summer tells us volumes about our relationships to the world (and to ourself), if we’re willing to listen. 

Baseball Pants

[Seasons: Summer XXV]

Baseball and summer go hand-in-hand. Home runs, all stars, and sliding into home plate all hold a special place in my memory, but no of them stand out like “playing” on my big brother’s team. 

I was five or six years old—too young for little league in the 80’s—and I was watching my older brother play. Mom allowed me to wear a uniform while she coached and sit in the dugout. (Did you catch that? My mom coached boys baseball!) It dawned on me that though I was next to the players, close to the field, and even chewing on a mouth full of Big League Chew, I was not really playing. The difference between me and the actually players on the field became obvious: they were dirty and I was not. My solution was to sit on the ground instead of the bench and cover my white baseball pants with dirt.  The more dirt I rubbed the more authentic I felt. I was one of the big kids! A real baseball player. 

As an adult, every time I use my pants to wipe my hands clean of farm dirt, I think of that time I “played” on my brother’s team.   

Nowadays baseball memories, summer, and dirty farm pants go hand-in-hand. I haven’t stepped foot on a diamond in 20 years, but baseball still shapes my experience of summer. What are the memories you’re making right now that will help you best experience the seasons of life in 20 and 30 years? 

Positive Associations

[Seasons: Summer XXIV]

Summer is full of strong, memorable scents. 

What’s the first one that comes to mind? 
Fresh cut grass?
BBQ smoke? 
Chlorine? 

The fresh cut grass scent is actually a distress signal to the rest of the plant, surrounding plants, and even insects. It’s literally the smell of green leafy trauma. 

The BBQ smell is often a mix of burning flesh, fat, and the build up of chard carbon. In too high of doses, it’s unhealthy. 

Chlorine is poisonous in almost any amount, though, if diluted on a warm day, is a lovely scent. 

If seasonal smells are a warning of danger, then why do we enjoy them? Because they have positive associations. Fresh cut grass means warm weather is here to stay, our vitamin D deficiency will be reversed, and vacation is likely around the corner. BBQ scents are associated with community gatherings, July 4th holiday, and good conversations with friends. And who doesn’t have good memories of swimming from childhood, which explains our affinity for the chlorine scent.  

Every season in life, even the dark of winter, has the potential of positive association. Sometimes those associations “choose us” in the way warm weather goes hand-in-hand with cut grass. Sometimes we need to choose those associations. And that requires “reliving” them through commemoration, story telling, and reenactment.  

What seasons in your life need positive associations? 

Willow Trees

[Seasons: Summer XXIII]

Children don’t need to be taught magic or told to have an imagination. It’s part of the nature of youthfulness. And no other seasons promotes imaginary play like summer. The long warm days, time away from school, and increased freedom all contribute to a spirit of exploration and wonder. 

Trees also help. I’m convinced they are innately magical. 

My magic tree was a huge weeping willow on the edge of our property. It could be a blistering 100 degrees out, but in the shade of the willow, a make-believe world was always the right temperature. There was no end to what was possible in that tree: a pirate ship’s bow, a secret jungle, theater stage and curtains, or just a fort to hide from enemies. 

My adult eyes are the door to a vault of good memories, and the willow is the key. Every time I see a willow, I can’t help but to feel a sense of vibrancy.   

Weeping willows have a hormone called Salicylic Acid (SA), which is the chemical inspiration for Aspirin. When the tree is injured or damaged in any way, it releases SA to trigger the tree’s defense response against bacterial or fungal infection. Even further, the willow can convert SA into a volatile chemical that can trigger the defense response of nearby trees. The weeping willow literally warns other trees of immanent danger. (Again, trees are magical!)

Summer and fully leaved willows go hand in hand. I have one on my property, and it’s my favorite tree. Sometimes I stand under it to experience a smidgen of youthful wonder.

Double Seasons

[Seasons: Summer XXII]

On the farm, summer is not one season but two: early summer, which is an extension of spring, and late summer, which hot and dry and barely resembles the tender growth and lush fields of June. 

Early summer is full of anticipation. The tomato vines are tall but fruitless. The cabbage heads are taking shape but far too small to justify harvesting. The goat kids are bouncing around and stressing the capacity of the barn. Soon they will have new owners. The chicks and ducklings are all hatched but their wings are waiting for a few more mature feathers.  

Late summer is another world it seems. Harvesting is in full swing. The tomatoes are drooping with supple fruit; the cabbages are bowling balls of vitamin A. The goats give milk generously and the barn suddenly feels three times more spacious. 

Life is full of seasons-within-seasons and double-seasons, even triple-seasons. There are shifts and changes and transitions right in the middle of seasons. Summer is never just summer. (Nor is winter pure winter or fall only fall.) It’s really more than one season forced together for simplicity and generalization. 

How do we live fully into the life season we’re in if we oversimplify our experience? If we generalize our particular place? If we cater to the expectations of others and the seasonal trends around us? 

You are complex; so is the season you’re going through.

Pure Consumer

[Seasons: Summer XXI]

Ironically "summer break" begins in the spring and ends long before fall arrives. For school age youth, “summer" is not so much a reference to the season that falls between the solstice in June and the equinox in September, summer is the the “season” without classes and exams. Summer is imposed on the calendar rather than dictated by it. 

Originally, summer break from school was not a gift of youthful freedom. Quite the opposite. It was dictated by the seasonal needs on the farm. Kidding goats and planting potatoes in the late spring and harvesting hay and corn in the late summer, for example, were partly the responsibility of children. There was no time for school. 

What was once a season of manual labor has become a time free from school. What’s the tradeoff? 

We’ve given our children no less schooling, per se, but we’ve also given them a lot less work, which amounts to more time devoid of their contribution to the wellbeing of the family, home, and land. 

What’s the implicit message of the summer “season” for children? On the surface it might be, “You are so valuable, you deserve more leisure time.” But more deeply, we may be saying, “You have no measurable contribution; you are a pure consumer; do as you wish.” 

That’s not freedom; it’s a unique kind of bondage.

Summer Break

[Seasons: Summer XX]

Summer is the season of freedom.

Freedom to be youthful. Freedom to play and make memories. Freedom to explore and get dirty. Freedom to stay up late and sleep in. 

For the last couple generations, since compulsory, public education became the norm in the United States *and* most kids stopped living on working farms, summer has been associated with youthful freedom. (This is likely why there are more children’s books written from the perspective of life during the summer break that any other season.)

“Summer” is synonymous with “summer break” rather than the actual season of summer. 

Kids are more likely to think of slumbers parties, church camp, or traveling than they are about heat and dry fields. 

Our culture has a larger influence on our experience of the seasons of life. There's nothing inherently anxiety inducing about the final weeks of the season of autumn, for example. Except that’s when we do a lot more shopping.

Developing an ability to discern the difference between life’s season that are under our control (and often imposed by others) and seasons that are inevitable is an important “tool” of wisdom. It’s a sign of self-awareness and spiritual maturity.

Swimming Relief

[Seasons: Summer XIX]

What’s summer without swimming?

Swimming is not an escape from summer, but a relief from one element of summer: the heat. 

Every season in life has elements that are overbearing. Winter has it darkness or cold; fall has the loss of life; spring has its surprising freezes. Summer, while full of life and abundance, has overwhelming heat. 

Moderated heat is soothing, even healing. It encourages the flow of blood, cleanses pores, and clears the mind. Unmoderated heat dehydrates and burns. The epitome of summer heat looks like a CA forest fire. The sun seems to jump right out and touch the surface of the forest tinder, and within minutes, it seems, 100,000 acres are charred. 

No season in life is a cruise through utopia. If it’s not the surprising “burning” effects of an outside source like the sun, there’s always the “heat” of internal unhealth—addiction, self-criticism, prejudice, lust, etc—that can do damage. 

Swimming is not an escape but a relief. Swimming doesn’t deny, project, or repress the heat; it embraces the potentially damaging effects with honest action.

God & Berries

[Seasons: Summer XVIII]

Summer growth is robust and resilient. In spring, the growth is tender and vulnerable. Frost can wipe out an entire orchard of orange blossom or wilt a whole garden of tulips. But summer weather is predictable and summer growth is sturdy. 

Except for berries. 

At the heart of summer strength is the tender flesh and wonderful diversity in flavors of berries. 

We can overemphasize one trait and eclipse the others. This is the mistake of a naive craving for simplicity and control. It’s nowhere else more evident than in religion. 

We simplify the Divine to a one-dimensional, predictable, singular trait… and are blind to the wildly diverse and complex traits of one worthy of our devotion. 

All the poets and mystics and people that have sacrificed their lives to experience God that I know, don’t find pure strength or unlimited power; they encounter tenderness, love, and mystery. 

Summer berries help lead us to this kind of God.

Brown Fields

[Seasons: Summer XVII]

Where I grew up it happened in May; where I live now, it occurs in July or August: the fields turn brown, the risk of fires increases, and signs of death emerge. 

Summer is full of life and growth, but it’s a season that is not without death. 

This is true for the summers in our life, too. It’s not that death disappears for months, it’s that it hides behind the showy growth and abundant life. We wake up one morning, it seems, and the fields are on fire! 

I’m suspicious of the person that says everything is well—business is good, the family is healthy, and life is grand. Summer is all around, it seems, but I know that even in times of excessive green, there are subtle signs of late summer around the edges of the fields and in drying creek beds. They just don’t see it yet (or aren’t willing to admit it). 

How do we tend to the hidden “dryness" in our lives? 
Not by overemphasizing summer growth! 
Not by irrigating and extending the season!

Summer Community II

[Seasons: Summer XVI]

If early community formation requires risk (mostly by visitors) and genuine warmth (mostly by those welcoming others), longterm community formation requires a different kind of risk by *all* participants: openness to change. 

All relationship last because of loyalty, but they remain rich and healthy because they embrace growth and change.

Why is community so risky? Blending the “autonomy" of more than one person often looks like submission to the common good and that bristles our obsessive commitment to individualism and freedom. But it’s so obvious that any healthy relationship requires this kind of risk over time. It’s the abandonment of selfishness for self-giving love.

There’s no loss in the end here. Only gain. 

Summer serves as a wonderful metaphor for this kind of community formation. There’s no selfishness in summer. Everything gives of itself, from abundance, without reservation. And the growth and change is remarkable!

Summer Community I

[Seasons: Summer XV]

Early attempts at building community are difficult. 

Social anxieties, unconscious and conscious concerns about strangers, unintentional group pressures, subcultural particularities and norms, and idiosyncrasies are all stumbling blocks. In other words, early encounters of community building can be just plain awkward. 

Fabricated hospitality doesn’t address the awkwardness. (You know it’s fabricated if a) it needs to be mentioned that the group is hospitable, and b) the responsibility is delegated to an individual or committee.) Smiles will seem forced. Handshakes and greetings will feel clunky and weird. 

Only genuine warmth and safety…
Excessive sharing and grace…
And a deep belief in the value of others’ participation…
Can create an aura of hospitality. 

Another way to say it is this: summer—the season of excessive sharing and genuine sustained warmth—is a beautiful metaphor for solving the awkwardness of early community formation and sincere hospitality.

Fallacy of Perpetuity

[Seasons: Summer XIV]

If you remember from grade school, the earth tilts toward the sun in the summer. Or, more precisely, the hemisphere that tilts toward the sun experiences summer, while the opposite hemisphere experiences winter. Consequently, the the sun rises earlier and sets later. Days are longer, warmer, and the UV index is significantly higher. 

Summer is the season for sun bathing. It’s also the season for cancer. The same phenomenon that draws us outside to the beach and the park is quite dangerous in excess. Counterintuitively, the best way to enjoy the sun is by staying out of it. We love to swim, but we wear sunscreen. We enjoy hikes but we wear hats. We are drawn to the pool but sit under sun umbrellas. Too much sun is unhealthy.

Los Angeles—Hollywood more specifically, but most of Southern California qualifies—is the most dangerous sun I know of. While it feels like a perpetual summer there, it’s not the UV rays that are so dangerous. It’s the fallacy that life can be a perpetual summer. The summer seasons of life, full of brightness and optimism, good fortune and growth, virility and expansion, are wonderful, but too much and too often is deadly. 

We need all four seasons of life. 
Don’t believe the lie that perpetual summer is possible (or desirable).
You’ll get burned.

Trellis the Vines

[Seasons: Summer XIII]

Summer is for Tomatoes. But what’s a tomato without its garden compadre: the cucumber. Bushels of cucumbers are the symbol of mid-summer abundance. 

Nearly everything that grows in the summer garden reaches vertically toward the sun. 

Nearly everything alive in the summer does the same. Summer is the season for growth, reaching for new heights, and making progress on goals. It’s the season that accommodates stretching beyond personal limits and breaking barriers. 

Vines challenge this thinking. Cucumbers crawl horizontally, each leaf giving a listless effort at vertical orientation.

While they don’t grow vertically, cucumbers can be trellised as high as twelve feet. I’ve never asked, but I presume the cucumber appreciates the help, as it thrives with a little assistance. 

Summer is the season for growth, but not everyone “grows vertically”. 

Some grieve. 
Others retreat and rest. 
And still others struggle to find any direction at all. 
Some need a little support in summer.