Seeing frost on the pumpkin
That’s a sign that it’s now time to create an indoor garden, new life
The pumpkins sit quietly on our doorstep in the crisp air. Autumn means festive banners, jack o’ lanterns and cheery candles. These rituals bring comfort as we transition from one season to the next.
And as we balance the transitions in life there comes the soft reminder that letting go is part of a natural process, including one’s own mortality. This is never more present than when we mourn the death of a loved one. And as we age, we gather these losses as legacies into the folds of our experiences. It is painful, but a constant that makes life ever more precious.
I suppose it’s partly why I’ve taken to saving some favorite potted plants the past few years by inviting them indoors to winter over with me.
A few days ago, I’d shimmied the large geraniums and citronella from the terrace in their heavy terra cotta pots, through the door to sit in a sunny window downstairs.
We’ve partaken in this seasonal move indoors three autumns now. What little effort it takes never gets old. The portable garden has become a kind of flora friend. It takes up residence like a familiar house guest, residing on the brick floor of a ground level room facing south.
Saving the plants this way, pruning them back, feeding them new soil, and even singing to them, reminds me that contact by nurture is key to our own survival. And the love we give is the love we receive.
Proof positive in a small Christmas cactus surprising with another offering of prolific red blooms.
A pair of hanging begonias flanking the front door with their trailing vinca were taken down from the covered porch pre-empting the frost last night. They found a place indoors with the others. We take care of each other. I water and trim, and they offer blooms and a keen message that nurture and nature always leads to the miracle of life.
My geraniums carry me today back to a dear old friend’s bay window midwinter, filled with geraniums. Their presence always challenged the cold weather with their ruffly leaves and lively flowers.
Perhaps it’s this challenge of continuing a practice of lifegiving, in the form of making room for one mobile and collective topiary, which makes it so satisfying.
It would be easier to toss the plants and start things anew next spring, after all, it is extra work and you have to be present for the plants. But once the garden begins to blossom for the first time indoors, it’s worth the preceding work.
It’s a gift to witness the process, taking small notice now and then, simply by pressing my fingers into the potted soil for moisture, leaning in to pull off wilted leaves or deadheading clumps of petals.
I’m not a natural greenthumb by any stretch, but there certainly is a growing gratification in saving and nurturing and protecting these little potted lives.
Over the years, I’ve learned this beautiful and lasting lesson from a special neighbor who sadly passed away today. He was full of life and lived a full life, sharing wonder and
wisdom with everyone he touched. He taught me about baking Swedish bread, growing tomatoes and appreciating wildlife. He was as strong and steadfast as the trees. He would say, with a twinkle in his eye, “Piece o’ cake!” What he really meant was that he had confidence in you and a belief that all life was a miracle and we should live it that way. He certainly lived it that way.
We cannot look at jewelweed without thinking of him and his lesson of remedy for poison ivy. “See how they grow near each other? Nature knows,” he would often say. When a terrible storm blew down many big pines in his field, he decided to mill them for a barn that he would build, climbing up onto the roof in his seventies like a young man. Nothing went to waste. Everything had a purposeful use.
So, I think of him today as I carry the potted plants in from the cold and breathe new life into them as winter approaches. I say a little prayer of thanks for all that he gave to our family, our friends and community, for all those lessons of love would live on through the ones we love.
In this crisp and cloudless afternoon, I imagine my dear old friend today, is right here with me, nodding with an encouraging smile and appreciation at my little garden of potted plants, safe inside and offering a promise of the new season.
Bonnie J. Toomey’s stories, essays, and poems have been featured in Baystateparent Magazine, New Hampshire Parents Magazine, Baystateparent Echo, Penwood Review and Solace in a Book. She worked as an adjunct at Plymouth State University in New Hampshire where she earned a master’s in literacy. She writes about life in the 21st century and lives in New Hampshire with her husband. Learn more at www.thedeepbeautybook.com/ writers-2/bonnie-j-toomey.