On Sunday, someone came up to me at the Chimacum Farmers Market and mentioned how quiet it was. The sun had just tucked itself into a cloud and mist filled the space between us, and I agreed – it was calm and relaxed, a stillness that I’d forgotten about. It’s like a gulp of air after diving deep underwater, or a gentle plateau at the top of a hill: the coming of fall.
I used to dread it, knowing the clouds would gather thick and low, and remembering the inescapable cold-sweaty socks and the nights that begin at four. But rainy weather only seems miserable and gloomy because we say it is. Up close to the earth, watching plants wax and wane, it’s impossible to think of the coming of water and a reprieve from the sun as anything but a relief. The summer is beautiful and energetic and bountiful, and we can only tap into that delicious nectar if we allow ourselves to rest. We, too, are perennial, and benefit from hibernation.
Abundance clings to the soil like heat to rock. The pumpkins and squashes and melons swell, the corn rustles like some ancient percussion, the carrots sweeten with each cold night. Life springs with each rain, thickening the parched earth and filling the crunchy mosses with soft, vibrant green. I already miss feeling the sun at nine at night, jumping into cold waters on a hot day, the possibility each long, blue summer day brings. But for the first time, I’m looking forward to what is coming. Maybe even when it’s dark, cloudy, cold, and misty, it is also a beautiful day.