Think of it this way: The “seeds” that we sow during today’s equinox — on a deep energetic level — will fall upon the earth, nestle into the soil, enter into a quiet state of rest, gather energy for the birth of Spring, and prepare to burst forth and grow with strength and glory during next year’s growing season. At the end of that growing season — the end of next year’s summer — this cycle will begin anew. It sure does make sense.

Alas, my life timing does not always line up with the precise timing of the solstice/equinox shifts, so today at exactly 5:18 pm EDT I will either be in the public library helping my children choose books or at the hardware store getting keys made. Either way, I will take a moment to breathe deeply and feel my connection to Nature. I will set my intention to open to this new cycle, both on a personal level and on a Nature-partnership level, and to do whatever I can to “assist in its full unfolding*.” (Please, please, let it be at the library…)

I’d love to hear how others are marking this seasonal transition, too. If you’d like, please post a comment and let me know! Happy New Year!!

* Machaelle Small Wright, http://www.perelandra-ltd.com/Solstice_Equinox_Cycle_W4585.cfm

First off, I’m going to sit in amazement for a moment about how efficiently these little, brown, globby guys raised and fed their young on the potato leaves. Some leaves had six or seven of the young critters lined up in a perfectly parallel configuration, munching away. As they grew bigger, the “bugs” would take off on their own, searching for their own leaf to devour. (I think of it as the potato munchers’ manifest destiny.) Whether individually or in a group, they made fine, fast work of their meals, leaving few (if any) leaves on the potato plants.

I talked to the Deva of my garden and asked for information and direction here. Although I strive for my garden to be an inclusive — rather than an exclusive — one, I recognized that I wanted my family to have a turn eating from these potato plants, too! I think I expected the Deva to tell me to keep sharing, in the spirit of ultimate inclusivity, but instead I got the direction that it was time to tell the “bugs” to move along. Ahhhh, more boundaries. They’d simply had their share; now it was my family’s turn.

So, one afternoon during the heat wave (whoo, was I hot!), I put on the lightest pair of garden gloves I could find and gently removed those “bugs,” one at a time, from the potato leaves. One plant had been completely devoured and lay limp, brown, and rotting on the soil. The others, though, still had enough leaves and life to keep going. By that time, the bug clan had mostly moved on, leaving me only a handful to relocate. I think that even they knew their turn in the potato patch was over.

Yesterday, I went out to look at the remaining potato plants again, and the life force that I’d seen on “bug moving day” was obviously dwindling. So, after checking with Nature, I dug up the fingerling potatoes growing in the soil and moved the wilting greens to the compost pile. I can sum up the experience best with one word: “Wow.” I unearthed more than 20 potatoes — beautiful and begging to become dinner. By agreeing to share with the “bugs,” I assumed I’d have a weak and pitiful potato harvest, but I was completely wrong. There were even potatoes hanging out under the plant that the “bugs” had chewed to pieces before I moved them along.

Now, those potatoes are gone, devoured this time by my family. I tossed them in a bowl with olive oil, sea salt and rosemary and roasted them till done. The skins burst open with a flavor that I’ve never before tasted in a potato, and I realized that this is what fresh potatoes taste like. The culinary experience was life-changing. And I think that the flavor was sweeter and the texture more sumptuous because I’d chosen to include rather than exclude, share rather than battle over the potatoes. I sincerely hope that the leaves had a more powerful, balanced, and fulfilling flavor to those mysterious, potato-eating “bugs,” too.

“I have learned from my rocks. I have learned that it works out best to go with the natural flow instead of working so hard to shape it into what I had hoped (not a new idea but a personal epiphany). I have learned that flaws are frequently blessings; that accepting a flaw and even featuring it as a good thing (i.e., fill it in with dots or swirls) can sometimes make the difference between a prosaic outcome and a wow outcome. I have learned to respect the heck out of Ms. Nature, whose design and color sense and whose instinct for ‘rightness’ just blow me away.”

“Respect” is the perfect word. I have watched artists force natural objects to fit their concepts, and the results are typically awkward and strained. These artists, too, have to strain themselves to make their desired, un-natural outcomes happen. In this world, at this time, humans too often strive to dominate and tame nature, rather than working with natural elements and partnering with them to co-create. I deeply appreciate my Aunt Jane’s take on all this — that this human-nature partnership can shift what would have been “a prosaic outcome” into “a wow outcome.” Personally, I opt for the WOW.

(Thank you, Aunt Jane, for sharing these thoughts first with me and then with these dear readers…)

• Dandelions and their long roots help to aerate the soil, which keeps our grassy spots actually healthier than if they remained compacted;
• Dandelion greens are considered salad delicacies in many fine dining establishments, and you don’t have to pay $11.95 for a “field greens” salad if they come from your own field (OK, backyard) … just make sure you don’t try Round-Up first and then decide to pick your lunch from your lawn;
• Dandelion greens are also excellent sources of key vitamins and minerals, such as A, C, D, B’s, iron, magnesium, zinc potassium, manganese, copper, and more;
• Dandelion roots make an incredible tea that helps detox your liver and gallbladder, and they have also been used in traditional medicine to treat breast illness, gastrointestinal issues, joint pain, and skin conditions.

To help my husband feel a little better about our dandelion “situation,” each year I pop as many of the little yellow heads as I can (so they don’t go to seed), and then I get out my handy-dandy dandelion digger and go to town, digging up those long roots to use in batch after batch of tea. I think of this as co-creating my healthy body with the dandelion plant. And, I hope that the dandelions and I are also co-creating, in baby steps, a less violent battle response in my husband. Maybe I’ll brew him a delicious cup of root tea (sweetened with another co-creator, stevia) and invite him to begin his own bilious detox…

Now, to shift from that place of awe to a place of pragmatic reporting: My students have established their partnership with nature; dedicated their nature spirit sanctuaries; learned and persistently practiced the fundamentals of kinesiology; made their initial connection with the Devas of their gardens; identified the location, size and shape of their gardens; created beautiful graph-paper charts of their gardens; and are now working on identifying the plants to go into their gardens before our next class session. Wow. That’s a boat-load of progress for two weeks…

Farm Wish List (courtesy of my son)

Here I sit, with my almost-nine-year-old son at my left, brainstorming what we might be planting “On The Farm” this year. Hmmmm. How exciting! The list of “wants” (so far) is:

• corn
• flax
• barley
• melon
• watermelon
• tomatoes
• sunflowers
• pumpkins
• lamb’s ears
• tulips
• roses
• potatoes
• carrots
• sugar snap peas
• soybeans (edamame, for his sister — what a great big brother)

Of course, we’ll start with this list and then consult with Nature on what’s balanced to plant in The Farm (Zone 11, for those interested in my various zones…). After all, we might think growing flax (or sugar snap peas, or carrots) is a fine idea, but that might not be a crop that’s in the greatest good for our Farm this year. We’ve got to always remember that Nature is our equal partner in this gardening business. (And no, I say to may son, Nature is not The Boss…but, then again, neither are we…)

Mosquito Tile, (c) Anne Sailer

The pattern on this “tile” is made entirely of little mosquito-body-shapes, arranged and re-arranged. In my artwork, I relish opportunities to work co-creatively with nature’s unexpected treasures, like the beautiful design and symmetry of the mosquito body. This process is especially delightful when I am working with a natural object that many people revile (such as insects — like the mosquito — and microscopic images of bacteria and viruses). Working co-creatively in this way brings me into deeper partnership with nature intelligences…and, when people who see my work do a double-take (and say something like, “What? That’s made from mosquitos?!”), I hope that they are moved to engage, somehow, in a preliminary co-creative conversation. 

Mosquito Tile Strip, (c) Anne Sailer

2009 Chart - Zone 10

Planning my expanded co-creative soil garden is interesting this year: Since there are already plants in the ground, I am not able to simply sketch the empty land on graph paper and ask what to plant. Instead, I need to draw the area on graph paper, fill in what plants are already there (only some of which I have names for), and then ask what to take out as well as what new plantings to put in. That represents an increase in planning workload! Except, I’m wondering if the process of drawing, charting and identifying plants already in the soil brings me into deeper connection with the garden than when I start with a blank slate? Or, is that just something I’ve manufactured to help me feel better about the extra work?

Last summer, I dug up the grass from half of my front lawn and created what we now call “The Farm.” My two children had started corn, melon and herbs from seed in flats, and those plants needed to go into the ground. I set an intention for The Farm and worked co-creatively with Nature to bring that intention into form. I had information about the size of the area to dedicate to The Farm, which of the seedlings to transplant into The Farm’s plot, what additional plantings to purchase and add to The Farm, and what soil, additives, etc. to bring to The Farm. Until I was well through the growing season, I didn’t really feel like I “knew” The Farm that well, however.

I was reminded of when I gave birth to my first baby: I expected to know him right away, and I was surprised at feeling like I didn’t know him at all! Of course, this makes sense objectively, but I’d carried him inside my own body for months and months and was certain I’d have a deeper knowing about who he was immediately. It took me a couple of weeks to come to terms with the fact that I’d have to be patient about that whole knowing thing. Even now, nine years later, I’m still learning who he is.

And that’s what it was like with The Farm. Since I worked co-creatively to determine the location and make-up of that garden (in essence, to “birth” that garden), I thought that I’d know more about it right away. Instead, the process of learning was slow, methodical, and glorious. Again, I was reminded to be patient (and I look forward to the next round of learning this season).

My garden beds that already have plantings in them – plants that I inherited from a previous owner or ones that I added before I began working co-creatively – seem far more familiar to me, even at this early stage in the 2009 growing season. It’s like I’ve been the foster parent to these garden beds and now I’m officially adopting them as my own. I already know quite a lot about them, but from a distance. I’m realizing that I’ll have to un-learn some (or many) things that I already think “I know” about these areas of the garden – things I’ve decided and assumed that may not actually true, or things that were true at one time and now no longer apply. 

So, perhaps adopting a foster garden does not mean a deeper connection with or knowing of a garden than birthing one from an empty plot. Perhaps the initial connection is, simply, different. As I identify plants in my foster beds and carefully mark their locations on my garden charts, I will remind myself that fostering these beds for the past 10 years does not mean that I own them, or control them, or truly know them. I will remind myself that, just as I parent my son about whom I still learn every day, the truth about this garden will reveal itself to me at its own pace, and my job is to be present and open and ready to learn. And, lest I hurry up and forget, to be patient.