Chicken Scratch: All the Way In and Back Out Again by Elizabeth Beggins

This time, the weather gods mean business.

At least twice already, we harvested what we thought was the last of the fragrant and flavorful bounty of summer, only to find the host plants still upright and serviceable the next morning. But this time, the forecast leaves no room for doubt.

In anticipation, we dismantle the vegetable plots, cutting away strappy vines and woody sprigs, stacking wire cages, setting aside to save tomatoes of any appreciable size, in hopes of future ripening. Even plucked green, homegrown fruits have more potential than the road-weary options at the store. Or, we tell ourselves they do, which might be more important.

We snip incandescent marigold blossoms from weary stems, leaving some petals behind as an offering, bringing some inside to dry. Poor man’s saffron they call it, but it feels rich to me.

After dodging a full blown freeze right up to the cusp of December, it finally arrives and unburdens itself all over everything. Begonia melts, colocasia slumps, trailing tradescantia flops in a flaccid mess. The fig, which only a day before clung resolutely to its frock, denudes itself in real time, leaves letting go like skydivers.

I’ve always been reluctant to transition my gardens from one season to the next, but it grew more noticeable when weekly market sales were no longer a driver. Professionals swap out plants proactively, knowing one is about to become less productive. The farmer can’t afford to wait until the current crop is completely spent before replacing it. She is an editor with a red pen and a looming deadline.

I’m fine with eliminating plants that have produced their last. But these days, and this day, as any day when I am in command of such life-reducing decisions, I feel twinges of guilt for ripping out these beating hearts. To compensate, I give thanks. For real. I say, “Thank you, tomatoes. Thank you, marigolds.” I follow with something truthful about how hard they’ve worked, how much they’ve provided, the elegance or ease they’ve added to my days. It is a gratitude practice that transports me from myopia to interconnection. I need it.

Once the space is clear, I’m able to embrace the full potential of this seasonal evolution. My husband fills the area with leaves, a father zipping up his child’s coat on a blustery day, to insulate the exposed earth from the ravages of wind and rain. Soil is the lifeblood of the garden, and we are determined to protect it.

Determination and protection are words I hear a lot right now, in the context of warding off political and cultural changes that feel threatening. The world is in turmoil and we, its human inhabitants, are both cause and cure. Resistance, we’re told, is imperative.

What we’re not told is the shape that resistance is meant to take or how we’re supposed to manifest it. How we do what we’re told we must do is entirely up to us, an opportunity for agency, and no great surprise that every process looks different. Some are leaving swords where they lie, some, while going it alone, are forging connection.

I’ve heard some people say, recently, that they’re practicing self-care as an act of resistance, as if they must maintain the pretense of fighting while they’re struggling to regroup. Friends, most of us don’t need permission to breathe all the way in and back out again. Please, practice self-care for its own sake. Dread is our constant companion, but so is delight. I can think of nothing more transformative than finding new ways to flourish, despite the times.

For me, the natural world offers guidance. Just look at it! Freed, for a time, from doing anything obvious, the garden is, nonetheless, engaged. It’s protecting an army of living creatures right where it is. It’s rebuilding from the long growing season, using the resources it has available. What it produced in its active phase continues to provide physical and emotional energy now.

The last few mornings, I’ve carried a kettle of boiling water outside to mix into the frozen bird baths I’ll maintain as best I can this winter. As I take in the garden, like the friend that it is, I don’t see resistance. What I see is resilience.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.