Today I put the garden to bed. Up to my elbows in a tangle of butternut squash vines and fingerling potatoes, I rip out blight-infested Romas and wrestle with the pickling cucumbers and those damn tomato cages. Even the chard and ruffled kale leaves lie in tatters, waving a pathetic buh-bye. They (like most gardeners in late October) are exhausted, spent. Mother Nature takes a deep breath and I sense that familiar longing. Bittersweet. Yes, that is the word — equal parts melancholy and gratitude — the emotion I feel every year as the garden shifts from production to compost.
Admittedly, I work in a frenzy while putting the garden to bed. Like ripping off a band-aid, I just want it to be over. The vegetables are finally complete as I move on to pruning blueberries and, finally — the saddest part of all — saying good-bye to the cutting flowers. Snapdragons, zinnias, dahlias. (The cutting flowers were always my mom’s favorite, snapdragons especially.) I tell myself to stop thinking and just rip. them. out. The process nearly breaks my heart.
But whoa, Holy Martha Stewart…CHECK OUT THE DAHLIAS! OMG…the dahlias are blooming heavily even after these shorter days and much cooler nights. There are plenty for a couple bouquets, enough to share with neighbors. Dahlias produce well into autumn after the snooty Royal Highnesses of Summer (i.e., peonies, delphinium, roses) have long since bid adieu. Resilient, reliable, gritty, not-too-precious — dahlias bloom a little longer and more vividly even after a good frost-kissing. If I could be a flower, I would choose the dahlia.
Although not intentionally, the images I paint on textiles often resemble flowers. I suspect this reflects my strong connection with the garden combined with a penchant for spirals. The shapes sort of appear as whorls on the fabric — et voilà — a bouquet in full bloom long past the season. I continue to explore what to make of these botanically-inspired pieces now that the fabric is dyed, painted and printed.
Like the garden in late October, I am also entering a new season (in my artistic lifecycle.) After gaining some proficiency with producing dyed textiles, I find myself at a crossroads, filled with questions: “What the heck do I do with the fabrics now? How do these hunks of cloth become compositions? Should cloths be left whole, allowed to stand on their own or cut up and quilted back together?” And of greater consequence, “How do I tend to my creativity during these days of extended isolation, waning sunlight, political conflict, illness, boredom? Is this really what I am supposed to be doing?” The questions give me pause, a wavering self-confidence and a twinge of self-doubt; I may be a mature woman, but I am a young artist. It is a familiar emotion: bittersweet.
And so it goes. As the harvest and dyeing is nearly complete for this year, it is time for a break. Well, for most of the garden except for the dahlias (and me.) The easier path would be to succumb to exhaustion from all we have endured (collectively) since last spring’s planting time. Yet the dahlias persevere in spite of all odds; they inspire and give me hope. As the seasons inevitably change, I want to be like the dahlias. Keeping in full bloom every damn year, even (and especially) this one.
