The grower of tress, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout,
to him the soil is a divine drug. He enters into death
yearly, and comes back rejoicing. He has seen the light lie down
in the dung heap, and rise again in the corn.
He thought passes along the row ends like a mole.
What miraculous seed has he swallowed
that the unending sentence of his love flows out of his mouth
like a vine clinging in the sunlight, and like water
descending in the dark?
The Man Born to Farming by Wendell Berry
Here we are, in our winter greenhouse, on January first. Unveiling the hardy greens that have survived the cold nights. This is the perfect place to begin our year together. Side-by-side. Grounded in home.
Bringing in the house plants that spent the summer outside; wondering at how much they’ve grown; getting soil all over the kitchen table and floor and counter . . .
The greenhouse seed babies are thriving and this little man has been busy making a mud pit full of “hot cocoa” just outside the door. I’m thinning and he’s brewing; so come on over for some cool microgreens and warm drinks! I love gardening in this giant terrarium on the cusp of autumn. It’s such a paradox to watch new life burst forth as everything else outside slows down and lets go.
With many thanks to Boppa and Uncle Scott we moved the greenhouse to its new fall and winter home. Ellen is giving it a thorough washing before we fill it with lots of compost and plant it with greens. This will be our first year attempting to grow in all four seasons in Northern Michigan! Jeffrey and I were inspired by listening to a podcast with Elliot Coleman, and now here we go on our first winter gardening adventure . . .
These three, helping me.
Bringing the garlic in again.
Another nine-month season of growing,
coming full circle.
Oh, I have so many thoughts about growing garlic. But this year, garlic speaks to me of forgiveness.
Taking a single clove from last year’s
soil and pushing it into the ground
just before winter
and hoping it will grow it into a new, full head –
come what may.
Through autumn leaves falling,
and snow storms,
and spring cold,
it grows silently
or maybe sits and waits
offering at last
in deep summer,
the smell of forgiveness.
The birds, traveling in style, with many thanks to Boppa!
The ladies settled into their new Gousty home right away.
Not a good day for working in the greenhouse . . .