I have decided to discover and try to live aligned with natural cycles.
I had lost track of nature’s tempo, living mostly in well-lit, air-conditioned rooms, removed from ebbs and flows of light and dark, heat and cold. I had felt compelled to think in myriad directions at once, receiving cell phone calls at any time of day, sending me flitting from one activity to another. I had lost my sense of meter. So, I am looking now to the earth and sky to help me restore my rhythm.
But, it is hard to detect seasons in Florida. There are mostly mild, sunny days here, interrupted by sweltering, stormy summers and a few frigid frosts. Used to the clear cycles of the Northeast, I find what rhythms there are here reversed, with vegetable gardens flourishing fall through spring and little growing in summer.
So, I have taken to gardening to live with this flow and learn of its passages. No longer buying plastic wrapped broccoli on a cellophane plate, I now touch the earth, place a seed, watch leaves and buds and follow the unfolding of life’s growth in phases. Not a product here and gone, with wrappers left to dispose of, but a relationship with a source of giving that is never ending, of which I am a part.
I have returned, too, to a more grounded route as a teacher, now tutoring for my profession. No longer trying to teach at-risk students, whose minds are distracted by hunger and fear, mandatory curricula of factoring trinomials and using the quadratic formula, I now meet with individual students on our own terms. We tell stories of sharing pieces of pizza, while moving colorful cut-up felt circles, and converse about wholes and parts. Through reason, in beauty, we discover patterns and processes of life with which we engage.
To live in the natural course of things, I refer to the traditional northern farming year as a framework, yet I invert it. Now, summer is the time to gaze over fallow fields, plan crops, repair tools and rest. Fall is to sow seeds; winter and spring, to tend plants and to harvest.
And so, I plant crops and care for my garden, September through May, watering, weeding, and warding off critters. As the earth bears fruit, I gather what is yielded. From this and what local growers offer at the farmer’s market, I eat and prepare pickled brussel sprouts, Swiss chard pesto and dried zucchini to keep for the mostly barren summer. At times, I struggle with the utility of my actions, aware that I walk within seemingly artificial constraints. While friends freely buy California grapes and Maine apples, I confine myself to what is locally available: baby bananas, one week, star fruit, another. Yet, I feel excitement in discovering what treasures my surrounding area produces in its season and in living within these borders.
During the busy school year, I work with students, many of whom struggle with handwriting and sensory integration issues. Tomara finds it uncomfortable to write letters and numbers. Paul can’t focus on listening and learning, easily distracted by incidental sounds and his own thoughts. I grapple with ways to help them and other students’ overcome obstacles to the very foundations of learning. I look forward to summer to relax and reflect on how better to help them to learn.
Late spring, when temperatures rise too high for comfort as daylight lingers, I put my garden to rest, planting cover crops of lab lab and buckwheat to replenish the soil, as well as yard long beans and cherry tomatoes which can thrive in the scorching sun and incessant rain of Florida’s summer, without my care. I turn, now, for sustenance to my collection of canned vegetable soups, pickled mushrooms and dried bananas, along with the okra and Malabar spinach that still grow.
As the school year winds down and I look to summer, to rest and prepare for the next round, a bounty of opportunities to learn about sensory processing and handwriting spring up, like seedlings born of my inner questionings. Gratefully, I attend several local conferences and travel to Gainesville and New York for coursework. While my garden lies fallow, my teaching career feels as if in the height of the growing season. As when the earth yields more zucchini than one knows what to do with and one scrambles to preserve what’s given for another season, books, materials and teaching tips flourish and I gather what I can to take for use in the next school year. Though too hot for most vegetables to grow, this is clearly a time of expansion.
As September’s heat breaks with the shortening of days and temperatures again grow hospitable to vegetal life, I sow seeds for my fall garden and begin again working with students, rested and eager from a summer of frolic and freedom. Though eager to work with my new insights and tools, I am baffled at how I missed the rest I had hoped summer would afford me, as it did my garden and students. But, as autumn’s activity augments, I move in step, resolved to get rest next time ‘round. While cantaloupes and collards sprout and flourish in the cooling sun, I give more engaging handwriting lessons and introduce movements which develop focus to my students, enriching them with my summer’s yield. I notice, now, that the produce from my garden is more nutritious than last year’s and the fruit from the soil of my teaching has progressed.
Come January, with its darkened days and dull chill, viruses afflict folks around me and I frequently feel on the verge of illness. My boyfriend, Andrew, is weakened by the flu for weeks, staying home from work and sleeping a lot. Realizing he had overdone it over the holidays, he resolves to take off the week after Christmas next year, to regenerate. My neighbor, Jessica, notices she that has gotten sick at this time over the past years and decides to simply do less and retreat at this point. I, too, come to see that this is my resting season and that Florida, as part of the northern hemisphere, is in contraction. Though warm enough for plants to flourish, leaves have left the trees and it is a time of going within.
As mustard, lima beans and arugula are bursting with life in my garden, I feel tired most of the time. Against an almost addictive pull, I stop myself from unnecessary study and canning, afraid of getting sick and not fulfilling my teaching commitments. When not at work, I lie around, napping and reading, spending a lot of time alone. The silence and absence of activity feels empty and lifeless at times, while sleep was fraught with dreams, enmeshed with jumbled thoughts and feelings. I journal to unearth distorted beliefs and am surprised to see tendencies revealed of my diminishing myself as a female and looking outside for authority, rather than trusting what I know. Day by day, I watch as underlying thoughts surface. Within the stillness, old beliefs uproot and new ideas emerge. I have heard it said that the void is the source of creation. I now understand how in still spaces we find new life.
As Jacarandas bud and sweet potatoes flower, spring emerges. With the increasing daylight of a warming sun, I wonder what will emerge. What I know for sure, is that my course is more grounded and less chaotic, as it is bound to the rhythms of growth and gathering, rest and renewal.