It’s late-October, and my Midwest garden still has some life in it. The New England Asters have stopped screaming, but they’re more or less still whispering purple, there’s phlox with energy left, the obedient plant is still going, and the Monkshood. One rogue clematis bloom just appeared, and, can you believe it, an iris I planted last spring has sprung a delicate, heartbreaking white blossom. My pink climbing roses are lovely. Some of the annuals are plugging away too, although the petunias have had it, turned in, shut out the lights. But the lantana keep on going, and I have two adorable deep pink, almost peach, hibiscus that are braving the 55 degree days.
These brave souls awaken such complicated feelings in me. I talk to them, cling to them, knowing that their beauty is lost already in the inevitable victory of winter. Like Persephone, doomed to the underworld for half the year, they live for whatever sun is left, as if they’re determined to enjoy every last bit of light. It’s funny: in September I can’t wait for the New England Asters. Their purple is so vibrant, so assertively beautiful. But by now, when they’ve been blooming for a couple of weeks, I wish they’d held off a little longer, wish I had more time with them.
Here in Chicago, we used to have first hard frosts before Halloween. I can’t remember how long it’s been since that happened, but it’s years. Now the annuals hang on way longer than they used to, often till mid-November or later. But annuals have to hang on. I deadhead them so they’re still trying to reproduce: Snapdragons, lantana, pansies, some of the callibrachoas; and don’t get me wrong, I love them. But there’s also a part of me that wishes they’d just get it over with and we could face the gloomy gray of loss. Isn’t that weird? I guess it’s like the parts of people who are caring for loved ones in long terminal illnesses; there’s always a voice that wishes it were over.
We don’t really wish it were over. We wish the suffering were over. We want to hasten the renewal. The pain of anticipation is so keen. And of course once it’s done, once our loved one has passed, our gardens have wilted, we scream to have them back.
We are prisoners of time.
So what the autumn garden reminds me of is mortality. Yours, but mainly mine. Can we ever accept that? Our own inevitable deaths? They tell us young people feel immortal, but I think most of us do. No, I take that back; not immortal, but somehow exempt. It’ll happen to everyone else, but I just can’t believe it’ll happen to me.
Not just mortality, of course, but aging too. I think personally I’m more afraid of not living fully than I am of dying, and while I’m still around and kicking, I want to add to the beauty of the world one garden at a time.
And the gardens are beautiful in their dotage too; the flaming reds of the maples, the deep burgundies of Oak Leaf Hydrangeas and Virginia Sweetspire. A couple of weeks ago I was in upstate New York when the trees were at their prime, and the weather was brisk but sunny and life just seemed totally all right.
Where am I going with this? Are we over -50’s beautiful in our autumn too? Of course we are, but everywhere you look the image of beauty looks 23. Do we just need a better p.r. firm?
Nature teaches us so much. Nature will renew: next spring I’ll be oohing and aahing over the Scilla and Irises I just planted yesterday. I’ll be focused on Virginia Bluebells and Jacob’s Ladder, Kerria and Serviceberry. The next generation of my family will bring all that exuberant joy of spring into my life too. Life goes on. And it’s not about me.
But of course since we’re conscious creatures, I won’t forget the fall either.
I hope that fall helps me to become more intentional about what I want the time that’s left to be: what do I want to do? To see? To achieve? To contribute? What is my reason for living? And where do gardens fit in all that? These are the questions I’m finding hard to ignore. What about you? What questions does time force you to confront?