Big transitions in my life the past year or so: the birth of my daughter, a new job, getting ready to sell our house and move into the city.
So it is with the seasons as well. The temperatures here in Michigan are dropping steadily, the leaves are changing, pumpkins are popping up at roadside stands. Autumn is in the air.
Much like last year, I’m trying to stay on top of all the transitions and stay involved with creative projects. It’s tough. And I’m not working on anything specific now, but I have some ideas and plans brewing.
My wife and I are house shopping. It’s been a big project, getting our house ready for sale while simultaneously looking at other homes.
One thing I love about our current house is the light. Lots of windows, east/west facing, plenty of natural light – it’s spoiled me over the years.
Now, as we house hunt, light is a big decider for me. Does the space feel open? Are there a decent number of windows? Which way does the sunlight come in? How will that change over the day, or the seasons?
The place above caught my eye right away. When we walked in, the light coming into the dining room made me take notice. That’s light I could get used to.
Last year I shared some photos from around the house, where the light comes through the windows in lovely ways.
This year, I took an earlier look at the winter light that comes in. As the season changes, so does the light, and it’s fun to chase it around the house when the sun comes out.
On weekend afternoons like this, the house is pretty quiet. When the sun is out, it almost teases you to start thinking about spring. All these windows. It’s a great tableau.
Summer nights around the house – when the angle of sunlight turns the mundane into dramatic.
It’s enough to get lost in. Evenings like this, there’s entertainment in simply watching the light move, and shape, and shift.
Like some mythic, benevolent dictator, the sun shows its preferences in direct ways. A set of headphones here, the neighbors yard over there. You can’t question it. You just record it.
And hope the light shines on you.
Where you could sit on the edge of your bed
And you could stare into your own shoes
And in the pools of light there
Go wherever you choose
I’m lucky. My house has a lot of windows, giving it an airy feel most of the day. But when the sun sets, the house becomes a pretty magical place.
It’s not like the harsh morning light coming in the front of the house, facing East. No, this evening light gets filtered through the oak and pine trees in the back yard. It’s softer, more welcoming. Our hearts turn West.
I love that feeling when all the lights are off in the house, and it’s just the sunset light coming into the house. It makes for a beautiful way to do the dishes, looking into the backyard and watching the birds and squirrels do their thing.
It makes the backyard a lovely place to be, too, come sunset, every season of the year.
The weather won’t let that happen just yet. But the sun is back, and it’s thinking about us. You can tell. It’s creeping back into life apologetically.
I’ll say this about my photography hobby: it’s taught me to see the light.
Not just see it. See It.
I’m lucky in that, around my house, the light hits the main rooms in a lovely way, morning and sundown. The front and back yards, too. Just gorgeous light comes pouring in during sunrise and sunset. It doesn’t matter the season either. The Light is there.
So it’s with great pleasure that, after digging the spot out my galas with my fingernail, I can put that discolored depression to good use. Into my coffee can it goes, collecting with other vegetable matter, coffee grounds, and crushed egg shells. From there, it goes into my compost pile.
The whole concept of compost fascinates me. But maybe I said that already.
Anyway, now that the garden is finishing up, it’s a good time to reflect on what I’ve learned since March – and since my first garden project last year.
First, though, let me say that it’s a helluva joy to eat stuff you’ve grown with your own two hands – especially when it’s drop-dead delicious. That yellow tomato? Life-changing. The green beans that never stop coming? Tender and flavorful. I was a veggie fan before, but now? Died-in-the-wool, man.
Maybe you’ve heard, but there’s a lot of work involved in gardening. Milkweed plants were a problem. They would sprout up without fail in the middle of the spinach or bush beans. It’s not a pretty plant. When I would pull it at its base, the whole thing would come up easily.
Mosquitos were also a problem. Back in the garden area, the mosquitos were everywhere – especially when I would work out there, near dusk. I would head out to the garden with my gloves and bucket, start picking veggies, and be swarmed. Absolutely swarmed.
There were always weeds to be picked. Grass to tear out. Now, because I’m only out there once a week (if that), the weeds are taking over. Clover and milkweed and random grasses – they’re stealing the sun from the planted-on-purpose vegetables. Eventually they’ll take over, and once again the area will need to be cleared. Next spring, perhaps. It’ll become a perennial tradition.
In the meantime, the beans and tomatoes keep coming. They’re crowding each other’s territory now: the tomatoes are greedy with their sunshine, and shoot stalk into the zucchini plant’s territory.
Soil and sun and water join forces to make delicious. It’s an easy formula, even when you question if it’s going to work out. You plant the seeds and you wait. And you wait some more. And then some green appears, and you’re kind of worried because you don’t know how it’s going to do. It does just fine, thanks, and in a few months you see some produce. The green tomatoes stay green longer than you’d like, and the squash never really comes at all.
“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube,” Hunter S. Thompson once said, and it’s true in the case of gardening. Gardening is, at its heart, a Zen practice: deep breaths, slumped shoulders, and just a little bit of slack-jawed senselessness. You want the damn things to be done already, but Nature says, “Hold on. Be patient.”
What choice do you have? Squeezed out of a tube it is.
Here’s the part where I rap lyrically about the Earth and the soil, and how deep and powerful it is. The truth is, the dirt is vitally important to the vegetables, and not at all to me. I deal well with plants, not with dirt. Sweaty is better than dirty, always. Except for a short period of time when I was toddler and ate mud, getting dirty has never been my idea of fun. I love to work and to put forth effort, to get drenched in sweat and have my hands raw with effort. But I don’t like to get dirty. I leave that to the plants.
But those tomatoes? They make the whole thing worth it. Every bite is a reminder of those weeks and months of work. The little seeds that started as sprouts and then became bushy food factories. Now I have more tomatoes than I know what to do with. So I bring them to work, and others enjoy them.
Step by step, food is born. It’s a beautiful thing. Delicious, too, not only in flavor but in appreciation.
