FOR TWENTY YEARS, when our kids were young, we had a summer house (not to be confused with a summerhouse!) on Whidbey Island. It’s a place I always think about this time of year, maybe because the change of seasons felt so palpable there. After spending long summer weekends sitting on the deck overlooking the lake and the harbor beyond, going to the farmer’s market, walking on the beach, browsing the shops, and eating fabulous food, the slide into fall with all its obligations and responsibilities was especially tangible. The golden light, the shortening days, and the tan, dry grass on the hilly slope were all markers that one season was coming to an end, and another was just around the corner.

The sun didn’t always shine, of course—we’re in the Northwest, after all. But perhaps that’s the gift of memory—the windy, rain-soaked picnics are gradually forgotten, and you remember only the sunny ones. It was a very snug house, with pine floors and an open kitchen with white tile countertops separated from the dining/living space by a short island. Coming into the kitchen, pretty much the first thing you saw was the side of the refrigerator, which made it the perfect place for magnetic poetry.

Over the years, we all wrote “poems,” and added to or subtracted from other people’s “poetry.” Many of the short words—on, and, but, I, it, etc.—on the tiniest magnets were quickly lost or slid down into the dark purgatory underneath the fridge, so we learned to do without them. As for attribution—who wrote what—that remained largely anonymous or unknown. (Except for Colin’s poems, which were always either about Batman or zombies.) And that’s why the title of this post remains unattributed:

            garden or imagine good

Who “wrote” it? Was it me or one of my sisters? Megan? Kurt? Or did we all write it communally somehow, because of the way we moved the magnets around when we were composing other poems? But I remember those four words lined up in a row, which usually meant intention. When we sold the house, I stuck all the magnets on a couple of cookie sheets, where they are still. So, of all the poems written on the side of that refrigerator, why has that one stayed with me in the dozen years that have passed since then?

Maybe it’s something about a thought or feeling being stripped down to its essence, no extraneous words needed. Or maybe it’s the sense of possibility—if you could imagine good, what would it look like? Would it be a garden? Or something else? Or is the garden the highest good?

My garden this year was not really good. Oh, it looked nice at different moments—if you didn’t look too closely, and especially if you avoided the outer edges, which became weed fields neither of us had the energy to attack. Just yesterday, I realized that the blackberry bushes from the greenbelt have leapt across the dry creekbed and are eagerly insinuating themselves in places where they Should Not Be. And it’s been borne in upon me again that we are not as young as we once were.

Certainly, we still enjoyed the garden, and the friends and family we hosted this summer seemed to enjoy it too. And the damson plum tree was incredibly prolific—preserving in the form of gin making and jam making is about to begin. But thinking about summer slipping into fall, which always makes me melancholy, seems a bit more so this year.

Because nothing lasts? It’s September 11 as I write this, a heavy day made heavier by being the eleventh anniversary of my beloved friend Jennifer’s death. (Rest in peace, my dear.) And by the news of our world feeling so weighty lately, full of angry voices, partisan disagreement and violence, with seemingly no end in sight.

So, I have to go back to what’s real, and what brings comfort.

What are those things? Enjoying the beauty of God’s creation, weeds and all. Yes, it takes effort and concentration to overlook them, but I definitely got better at it this year!

Taking time in-person with friends and family around good food and conversation, creating happy memories that will help sustain us in the future.

Creating and celebrating beauty in whatever form that takes, from writing, drawing and painting to making beautiful cakes or pies or flower arrangements or whatever you like to make and sharing them. Not just on social media, but with people, in person.

Doing anything that personally brings you D E L I G H T seems especially radical right now, but I think that probably means it’s more important than ever.

Have I done all these things perfectly this summer? No, I haven’t. And maybe that’s another part of the reason I’m feeling more melancholy than usual. I read somewhere about a person who’d filled a sketchbook with watercolor paintings of summer skies on different days and I’ve been thinking about that ALL SUMMER. But have I done it?

No.

Why not? Probably because the idea remains more perfect in my dreaming about it than it will ever be if I actually DO it.

So maybe this is my call to action—to myself, and to you. Do the things—whatever they are—that you dream of doing, and don’t be afraid. Of failure, imperfection, or whatever it is that stops us.

Beauty and happiness and creativity don’t make headlines. But we need them in our world now, more than ever. So,

            garden or imagine good

. . . in whatever form it takes.

And blessings be upon you, my friends!

 

All photos my own

(And please note I’m only sharing the ones that DON’T include the weeds and messy parts!)