The Edible Landscape: Autumn Equinox in the Garden

The Edible Landscape:
Autumn Equinox in the Garden

Story by Abby Bard
Photography by Sarah Bradbury

Life in balance is what I strive for and the garden is where I go to find it.

As the sun begins to lower in the sky to bring equilibrium to day and night, I notice how the garden has responded to the change in light. The tomatoes, sunflowers, beans and basil have reached their ultimate height and set their final flowers. The greens have sent up central flowering shoots, forming seed pods to fulfill their destiny of reproduction. Apples and pears have dropped their heavy fruits, and figs and kiwis are beginning to swell and soften.

These are autumn’s signs of the coming darker days and the need to conserve and preserve the fruits of summer. Of all the gifts that the garden provides, the most important to me is this connection to nature’s rhythms, which we humans have all but obscured with artificial means.

This year has highlighted the fragility of life and the role we humans play in tipping the balance—everything can change in an instant. While earthquakes and tsunamis, hurricanes and snowstorms are natural events, oil spills and nuclear accidents are our own creation.

What, ultimately, do we need to survive? Not the Internet, not even electricity. We need the basics: food, water, shelter. We need the earth to survive and grow the seeds we sow to maturity; we need to know that our children will have the healthy food they need to sustain them.

In our desire to collect things and achieve faster, newer technology, have we forgotten that everything we really need comes from earth and sea? If everyone sits in front of screens all day, who will grow the food? I am more determined than ever before to grow, nurture, and gather food from my garden—to be a contributor as much as possible to the never ending circle of life. At the times when I feel helpless in the face of devastation, it is healing to go out to garden and, hopefully, give back to it as much as I can. As Caroline Casey says, “co-operators are standing by.” I want to be one of them!

I’m convinced that diversity and companionship help sustain the circle of life in the garden, not segregation and isolation. In my garden there are hundreds of bees of many varieties—our special allies—doing their pollination dance. They move from rosemary to mint, from lavender to borage, from sage to oregano, from peach blossoms to apple blossoms to pear blossoms to squash blossoms, from berries to tomatoes to basil, visiting all the blooms in turn.

By allowing chard, kale, arugula and lettuce to “bolt” and scatter their seeds, these plants have naturalized and become my beloved edible weeds, along with dandelions that grow in all the paths, creating a beautiful mosaic pattern at night when their leaves spread out from their centers to rest on the earth. The same is true for the borage and nasturtiums whose bright blossoms, contrasting with their lush green leaves, bring beauty to the garden year after year, and turn my salads into edible art.

This autumn, as I pull the spent summer plants from their beds, I’ll cover the earth with cardboard, manure, straw and leaves so that when the sun increases its upward arc in the sky, the earth will be ready for another cycle of growth.

I feel so fortunate to have this land around me, not covered by concrete and smothered by buildings, and I feel it is my responsibility as a living creature to be with it in harmony, to take notice of what is happening and to support the plants that sustain me. So I take this time of natural equilibrium to renew my intention to stay in balance with our Mother Earth, to follow her signals and innate wisdom.

My harvest began this year in June, when I picked several quarts of raspberries. I froze some and made jam out of some and then it was time to pull up the garlic that I had planted in the fall. From three or four large heads of garlic, separated into cloves and planted in rich soil last October, I now have over 40 robust bulbs, more than enough to last me through the year if I carefully store them in a dark, dry place.

Now it’s autumn again—time to replant the garlic for next summer’s harvest. I’ll be drying more apples and pears and drying, roasting and freezing tomatoes. I’ll be canning as many jars as I can of wild blackberry syrup, which has become the ultimate dessert topping in my family.

And I’ll be setting out seedlings of kale, chard, lettuce, and onions to settle in for the winter so they’ll be ready to greet the rising arc of the sun next spring.