The garden is making its way back to the earth it came from, dropping and producing seeds for next season. It is a twisted riot of color. We can’t keep up with the cucumbers and the zucchinis look like nuclear missiles and just as surely as the morning mists settle on the pasture and spider webs drip with dew, the first frost will come and bring it all to an end. So much goodness and beauty. Sometimes abundance looks like chaos.
It has been over 40 years since I saw the Group of Seven J.E.H MacDonald’s “The Tangled Garden” but its strength as a painting still amazes me, in no small part because our garden is that painting every year. Either first thing in the morning or later in the day, Jenny and I wander around in the five different vegetable/flower gardens to see what might need weeding, tending or harvesting. But late in the summer that garden takes on a “tangled garden” look. There is something of neglect, something of overabundance, something of the dying of the season, some joy, some sadness, some gratitude, some melancholy. The garden has fed us for months, will satisfy us with late fall and winter crops of beets, leek, carrots, brussel sprouts not to mention stored potatoes, onions, garlic and apples and a canning cupboard full of pickles, apple sauce, tomato sauce, jams, and juices.
The garden is making its way back to the earth it came from, dropping and producing seeds for next season. It is a twisted riot of color. We can’t keep up with the cucumbers and the zucchinis look like nuclear missiles and just as surely as the morning mists settle on the pasture and spider webs drip with dew, the first frost will come and bring it all to an end. So much goodness and beauty. Sometimes abundance looks like chaos.
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August 2022
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