The Season of Goldenrod and Aster (and Dahlias)
“[G]oldenrods and asters appear very similarly to bee eyes and human eyes. We both think they're beautiful. Their striking contrast when they grow together makes them the most attractive target in the whole meadow, a beacon for bees. Growing together, both receive more pollinator visits than they would if they were growing alone. . . That September pairing of purple and gold is lived reciprocity; its wisdom is that the beauty of one is illuminated by the radiance of the other.”
Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer
Goldenrod and Aster
This is the time of year when the goldenrod and aster bloom. The serendipitous co-blooming of these native plants marks a very specific moment. It tells me that summer is over, and we are into fall. I always feel a particular kind of sorrow in the fall, a kind of dread at the coming of the short days and cold nights of winter. Fall is also the season my father died, and fall days remind me of his absence with an intensity that belies the four autumns I have now spent without him.
Fall-grazing horses
So when the calendar turns to October I have to remind myself to enjoy this particular moment, the sunset moment of local flowers, instead of vacillating between brooding on the season past–my sunflower failures, my inability to keep on top of the weeds–or diving headlong into the future and my plans for next season, when all flowers will bloom pest-free and disease-resistant.
I have to remind myself not to skip over the utter glory of this season, when the sun is lower in the sky, but still warm and strong, when all kinds birds still visit the flowers, when the goldenrod and asters seem to inspire a signature glow, and when I hit the sweet spot of the horse care season—the flies aren’t bothering them, but it is not cold enough to deal with the time-consuming chore of blanketing and unblanketing. I have to remind myself that as I plant seedlings, I also need to plant myself in the here and now.
Fall dahlias
Appropriately, fall is also the season of dahlias, those irresistible flowers that capture so much beauty, but require even more work to coax into bloom and last so fleetingly in the vase. Like fall, blink and the moment has passed. Every season I vow that I’m done with dahlias, and every season they burst onto the scene in September with an irresistible allure that keeps me coming back.
Staying in the present is made more challenging because fall is a busy time on the farm, nestling baby seedlings into the beds where they will spend the winter, planning seed orders for spring and summer-sown flowers, and figuring out how to have more abundant flowers to share next season.
I am determined, however, not to let the busy overshadow this exact moment. I plan to cling more tightly to the delight I feel when I stumble upon my lost snips, hidden in a bed after slipping out of my holster, and let go more quickly to the frustration when I realize I’ve lost them. I vow to overlook the farming fatigue of October, and embrace more fully the satisfaction of this season of growth and beauty.
Finally, I am reminding myself of the beauty and radiance of this particular day.
