I began this post the evening of Nov. 1, the Dia de la Muertos. I have never participated much in this tradition. I’ve always tended to honor these kinds of things internally, rather than placing much focus on tangible objects or physical actions. I do think it is a really cool practice, though, and am all in favor of folks celebrating the lives of those they’ve lost in this positive way. It’s just not how I do.
Today, on the Day of the Dead, I pulled up dying plants and cut back dead sunflower stalks. I felt rather somber as I entered my garden, now in decline, saddened by the loss of Summer and regretful of the progress I didn’t make and the tending I didn’t accomplish while I was busy working on my art.
But as I was cleaning up the mess, my mood began to lift. That’s not unusual with me and gardening. I’ve often referred to the act of getting my hands in the dirt as my form of prozac. But this was different.
First, I noticed these cute little brittle capsules that look like a fairy’s purse. Just a bit of pressure will crack them open to reveal the treasures inside, moonflower seeds. I gathered handfuls of them.
As I finally cut back the long since turned crispy corpses of sunflower stalks, I noticed many seeds still clinging to their dried up heads. I collected those as well. I saw many of my dead zinnia flowers jealously holding onto their multitude of seeds, so I plucked them up and plopped them into my pouch. A few of the enduring green bean pods I missed had turned good and dry, presenting me with shiny brown seeds. So much potential amidst all the death.
I noticed the yellowing turmeric and dried-out sun chokes, too. The withering foliage tells me it is time to dig up their rhizomes that are alive and have been growing beneath the ground all year.
I have also harvested basil, gathered sage to bundle, and claimed loofas to process. And there are all the hazelnuts and pecans to comfort me. Happily, life kept up its good work while I was painting, just as it has for eons long before I ever drew one breath of air.
I add the extra matter, the stalks, the emptied seed pods, and the dead vines to the limbs I’m burning in my chiminea. I am creating ashes that I will apply to help replenish the gardens for next year, where I will place my collection of seeds back into the ground. Is this about death? Or is death just the quintessential form of recycling? On a recent walk, I noticed a neighbor with a dozen or more large black bags of leaves on the side of the road to be carried off and thrown away. I cringe when I think of how much lost resource that act entails.
I strive to be a part of the exquisite plan, not the master of it. It is heartening that Mother Nature presented me with so many gifts from the garden despite my absence. I can say, at the very least, I did no harm, and in a world full of RoundUp, wasp poison, and mosquito sprays, it really is something.
