Wow! It's been quite a while since I've shared a round-up of joyful reads, hasn't it? Now that I've cut back to one post per week (so much more manageable for my life right now), I just haven't had the chance. The good news is that I've been saving up all kinds of lovely little gems for you, so here's an extra-large offering:
When the first chill of fall is in the air, it's off to the apple orchard to pick fresh fruit from the trees. Simply because it's fall and this is what we do.
This is "our" orchard. The one we return to, year after year. It has the most charming farm; we've grown fond of the animals who live there. We "check in" with them before we begin our search for the "perfect" apples.
The goats are still bold and friendly, clamoring to say hello (and to see if we have anything good to eat).
The rabbits are still shy and tentative, probably asking themselves, "Who are these big, nosy creatures, and why are they peering into our humble little homes?"
The horses are still handsome and graceful.
There's a certain soul-soothing comfort in going back to a certain place at a certain time of year. Seeing that no matter how many inches the children have grown since last fall, or how much the world has loudly changed around us, there are some things that stay beautifully the same.
Autumn is not just about the changing leaves, it's about the reassuring ritual of visiting the orchard. And gratitude that not all things must change.
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The more pictures I take (goodness, I think I'm getting into the hundreds of thousands by now!), the more I realize that I have an ever-growing soft spot in my heart for the underdogs of the natural world.
The rough-and-crumbly things, instead of just the smooth-and-shiny.
Overgrown gardens with weeds aplenty.
The "ugly" bugs. (That naturally excludes the exalted butterflies and the ever-adorable ladybugs.)
I'm so plugged into social media for my blog that I'm hyper-aware of the constant barrage of "Perfect." Instagram perfect. Pinterest perfect. Facebook perfect. Martha Stewart must think she's died and gone to heaven, with the whole world rallying around her like angels, sharing their carefully crafted visions of perfection.
And, let's be honest here: I fully admit that I strive pretty darn hard to take "picture-perfect" shots for this blog. Because who doesn't like pretty things? I'm guilty, too.
But here's the thing: I also want to embrace the "perfection-challenged."
The raggedy edges.
Curling leaves that have been gobbled up and heartily enjoyed by a bug (or two, or three).
Faded blossoms that have been fried to a crisp by late-summer sun.
There's a delicate beauty, a quiet grace, in time-worn things.
I'm reminded of The Velveteen Rabbit, the part about becoming real. (Can anybody read that book without misting up? Honestly...)
“You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” ― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit
And so I ask myself: What gentle, worn-down, perfectly imperfect thing is whispering for my attention today? Let me celebrate it, while it lasts.
If I had to choose just one symbol of summertime, it would be our Rose of Sharon bushes, which burst forth in a festive show of pink blossoms around mid-July and keep up their boisterous celebration until the first chills of September.
They are gorgeous, each and every blossom. They keep me busy behind the camera. It's impossible for me to go out the front door and not be beckoned towards them. They're intoxicating, and the bees agree.
The blossoms are havens for little creatures, gathering places to meet in secret, between the pretty petals.
It's in the very last days of summertime that these Rose of Sharon bushes surround us as if to say, "Surrender!" They climb up our window panes to peek inside, climbing so high that we think they'll reach right up to the tops of the windows, on their way to the rooftop.
"To every thing there is a season...
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."
-- Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version
And so it goes: The Rose of Sharon begins to fade. The vibrant and voluptuous pink blossoms turn to a soft purple; they wither and fall, taking their last curtain call.
Even in their withering, there's a delicate beauty.
Usually, just as this slow descent begins, a gardener comes 'round to trim down the bushes with a noisy electric hedge-trimmer.
This year, I couldn't bear to think of that harsh sound of shearing, piercing the peacefulness of these final afternoons of summer.
So I lugged out our ladder and began to clip the last of the fading blooms myself, quietly snipping with garden shears, amassing a pile for the composter.
My daughter gathered up the still-vibrant stems and carried them inside, like fragile dolls.
I told her she could arrange her own bouquets around the house. She was thrilled at the prospect and set right to work.
She took the task very seriously. I recognized in her my own determination to get the details right, to create a pretty picture, something to hold onto.
And through it all, my camera recorded these final moments of summer, knowing all too well they wouldn't last.
Summer went much too fast, didn't it? It seems we say it every year.
