On Sunday we got our first dump of snow of the season, apparently the earliest such accumulation in 56 years in Toronto. Snow is not uncommon in early November, but it was strange for it to be so persistent, to see it coating the leaves on the deciduous trees that had not yet fallen. In fact, yesterday I noticed that rather than snow covering leaves, leaves were covering the snow — the weight pulled the leaves right off the branches. Winter barged in before fall had finished its work.
Just two days before the snow, my friend Ateqah and I had our seasonal High Park appreciation walk, which, while drizzly, had felt still like peak fall. We laid on the ground and watched leaves fall like snowflakes, admired the fiery ombrés fading down the branches. And the day after that, I’d planted my bounty of discount bulbs and took care of some end-of-season garden tasks. The following morning, the door slammed shut on autumn and I needed to pull out my parka for a walk.
“I’m not ready,” I kept thinking as the snow fell all day long. But this morning, with the snow still here, and still falling, I’m reminded of the words of meditation teacher Joseph Goldstein: “Why should it be otherwise?”
Because, as Goldstein would point out, suffering comes from believing something should be different and having feelings about that. I’ve used this framing most successfully sitting in heavy traffic: I am part of the traffic in a congested city, have chosen this mode of transport. Why shouldn’t it be slow? I wanted more autumn, and I resist diving into the Christmas spirit until the trees are once again bare. But why struggle? Winter brings struggle enough.
There are still dahlias to dig and divide, the most dreaded task of the gardening season, and when the thaw comes later this week and this snow melts, I’ll do that. But for now I can take a cue from the world outside: nestle under a thick blanket and get quiet.
While I am no great lover of winter (sometimes I don’t even tolerate it), I am trying to embrace the unique opportunities of this part of our annual cycle. “This is the season of ________” offers a way of noticing the things specific to this time. This is the season of turning fall apple scraps into apple cider vinegar. This is the season of baking and soup, of endless cups of tea, the warm glow of candles. This is the season of heavy blankets and longer sleep.
“This is the season of ________” offers a way of noticing the things specific to this time.
We think of spring as a time of renewal, but could there be renewal without rest? Is winter actually the time renewal begins? More womb than tomb, a long, quiet gestation before spring’s splashy rebirth? What if I could also see winter as not just necessary, but sacred?
One of the last jobs of the year is to dig out the finished compost from one of my composters and apply it to the garlic beds and spring bulbs. The other composter is full with fall leaves and cut-back annuals and our kitchen waste. Now I’ll start filling the empty one while the other begins its slow work. Digestion will be suspended during the coldest temperatures, but all the matter I add helps it reach a critical mass, so come late spring, it will be ready, all that waste quickly transformed into nourishment. Perhaps winter offers the same opportunity to us all.
Otherwise this week, I’m . . .
Savouring: I really enjoyed the quiet, slow pace of end-of-season tasks: saving seed, putting things away, cutting back.
Tending: I planted so many bulbs, including snowdrops for the first time (and you know I’m emo about snowdrops). But also narcissi, tulips, fritillaries, and also for the first time wood hyacinth, dwarf iris, allium schuberti, and leucojum. (Vesey’s had a 50% off sale and I took leave of my senses long enough to fill my cart.) It was difficult to find spots for all these bulbs without digging up existing ones — I may be part squirrel. I also recently planted about 50 garlic cloves, mostly Music garlic, which I’m growing for the first time.
Harvesting: I did a last harvest of swiss chard, peppers, rosemary, and thyme before the snow.
Making: Apple scrap vinegar, which is a fun experiment in something from nothing. I save my autumn apple cores in a freezer bag until I have enough to fill a one-litre mason jar.
Cross-pollination
“How to Build a Tree,” by James A. Pearson
Sometimes your next
halting step
is more powerful
than the grandest vision.All a leaf knows
about building a tree
is to turn towards the light.
I’ll be back before too long with one more essay. Take good care,
xo
Jen
