Almanac

September

By Ashley Wahl

September is deliciously subtle. Like a sly smile in a moment of silent recognition.

The last wave of swallowtails graces the garden. Dinner plate dahlias resemble colorful mandalas and sun-dappled muscadines spill from the vine.

Life hums along. Hummingbirds drink from red spider lilies. The air, too, is like nectar — sweet as it’s been all summer — but something is different. Something not yet palpable.

The trees know, leaves whispering ancient incantations to merge with root and earth. The first to surrender glow with radiant splendor. They cling to nothing, unattached to their green summer glory or the luminous journey to come.

Weeks from now, tree swallows will gather by the hundreds at dusk, swirling across the sky like cryptic, flickering apparitions. But today, sunlight kisses goldenrod. Robins dip and shimmy in warm, shallow water. Plump bees float in endless circles.

By evening, the air is slightly cooler, or so it seems. And at twilight, when shadows dance in the periphery, a mourning dove cries out.

Coo-OO-oo.

Beyond a wild tangle of late summer flowers and grasses, a red fox flashes past, here and gone with the last whisper of golden light.

As darkness falls, all at once it’s clear: Elusive autumn has returned, creeping into consciousness like an impish melody — a dark, playful secret on the tip of your tongue.

The goldenrod is yellow;

The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down.

— Helen Hunt Jackson, “September”

Harvest Season

The Autumnal Equinox occurs on Wednesday, September 22. The days are growing shorter. As for the glorious bounty of summer? It’s harvest time.

Praise for the apples, pears and figs. Cucumbers, peppers and eggplant.

As the garden gives and gives, offer thanks for the tender young salad greens; the last plump tomatoes; the earliest pumpkins and winter squashes.

And don’t forget the edible flowers.

Like lavender (sweet and minty), marigold (transform your stir fries) and snapdragons (bitter, perhaps, but they sure are gorgeous).\

The Meadow Queen

If you’re wondering where that faint yet lingering vanilla fragrance is coming from, stop and smell the purple joe-pye weed — unless you’re allergic.

As the story goes, Eupatorium purpureum received its common name — joe-pye — after a gentleman of the same name presumably used the wild plant to cure typhoid fever. An herbaceous perennial of the sunflower family, joe-pye is a native species that blooms in later summer and attracts a host of bees, butterflies and moths.

Also known as kidney-root, feverweed and Queen of the Meadow, when this towering beauty begins to bloom — clusters of pinkish-purple flowers exploding from 7-foot stalks — watch and listen closely: Summer’s swan song is nigh.

Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

August leaves you wanting.    

In the afternoon, when the air is all milk-and-honey and the primal thrum of late summer has reached a crescendo, she will boldly take your hand.

“Close your eyes,” she will whisper, and as her golden light flickers across your face and shoulders, you all but dissolve into her dreamy essence. 

“This way,” she will tease, giggling as she guides you someplace a little darker, a little cooler — a shadowy hideaway beneath the trees.

You’ll stop at the tangle of wild blackberries, where deer tracks resemble spirals of ancient text and a sparrow whistles sweetly in the distance.

“All for you,” she will promise, slowly feeding you the last of the dark, warm berries, and then she will guide you along.   

You can tell by the sun on your skin that you’ve entered some clearing, and when you crack open your eyes, bees and butterflies light and stir in all directions. 

“Keep them closed,” she warns, leading you through wildflowers and down to the dock of a swollen pond, where yellow-bellied sliders bask on the bank, largest to smallest, like a set of wooden stacking dolls.

Bare feet dangling in the water, she leans in close, perfume thick as honeysuckle, plants a soft kiss on your cheek. Because her voice is like nectar — slow and sweet and dripping with intrigue — it makes no difference what she says next:

“I’ll never leave you” or “Wait right here.”

Besides, you’re too enraptured to notice that the days are growing shorter, that the gray squirrel has been busy storing nuts.

As the summer light begins to fade, the fireflies blink Morse code. The cicadas, too, scream out. All the signs are here, but you can’t see them.

When you open your eyes, she is already gone. 

Green Corn Moon 

Behold the earliest apples, the earliest figs, bushels of sweet corn and tomatoes ripening faster than you can say bruschetta. 

When the Green Corn Moon rises on Sunday, August 22, take a lesson from the squirrels: Now’s the time to preserve your summer harvest.

Can the fresh tomatoes. Sun-dry the herbs and figs. Pickle okra, cukes and peppers. As for the rest? Cook now and freeze it for later.

Squash soup, anyone?

Late Bloomers

The bees and all who hum and buzz are, in a word, nectar-drunk. Among the late summer bloomers — crape myrtle, lantana, lobelia, ageratum and phlox — a favorite is butterfly weed, Asclepias tuberosa, caterpillar food for Monarchs. Drought tolerant, deer resistant and kin to milkweed, what’s not to love? And their orange-and-yellow clusters mirror the joy andwarmth of summer.

Threshold

When in still air and still in summertime
A leaf has had enough of this, it seems
To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage
Its drifting in detachment down the road.

— Howard Nemerov 

Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

July spills her secrets to the night.

At twilight, as the earth exhales the sun’s hot kiss, the parish of crickets chants glory to the rising moon and a softness spills across the landscape.

In the garden, a luminous sea of moonflowers opens beneath the glittering heavens. Fragrant blossoms resemble tiny white horns — silent galaxies transmitting sweetness from the darkness to the great abyss.

A night bird calls out from the shadows.

Does he sing his own name — whip-poor-will — or does he sing of the muse? 

 

Night-bloom-er.

Moon-flow-er.

Hard to tell.

As constellations of fireflies rise from the tall grass, cicadas blurt out their shameless confessions. It seems that each moment is a dance between sound and light, and as moths orbit lamp posts like tiny winged planets, five deep, guttural bellows resound.

A bullfrog moans from an unseen pond. It’s not a siren song, per se — more like a trembling cellist exploring a single string — but enchanting, nonetheless.

Might it draw you to the water? Will you run your fingers along the pond’s silky surface, dip your toes into its coolness, hum a sonorous tune of your own?

Maybe.

Only the night will know for sure.

Edible Landscape

The garden is churning out summer squash and snap beans. Beefsteaks and Brandywines grow plump and heavy. And yet, everywhere you turn, edible treasures spill forth.

Blackberry patches at the edge of the woods.

Wineberries along favorite trails.

Mushrooms galore — boletes, leatherbacks, chanterelles and, if you’re lucky, chicken of the woods.

Red clover and dandelion, daylilies and chickweed, chicory and burdock roots.

Yet at the height of this summer abundance, don’t forget: Now’s time to sow seeds for the autumn harvest.

Something Sweet

Japanese wineberries: delicious though invasive. So, if you are wondering what to do with your daily harvest (besides eat them by the handful or tuck them into your favorite cobbler), consider using them for a cool, summer treat.
Got lemon balm? A friend passed along this simple recipe:

Wineberry & Lemon Balm Sorbet

Ingredients:

3 cups fresh-picked wineberries (rinsed and drained)

1/4 cup sugar

1 handful lemon balm leaves (rinsed and dried)

1/4 cup water

Additional ice water

Directions:

Line wineberries on a cookie sheet to put in freezer.

While berries are freezing, make simple syrup by stirring water, sugar and lemon balm in saucepan over medium heat. Once mixture reaches a boil, remove from heat and allow syrup to cool completely before straining out the leaves. Put syrup in a covered container; refrigerate.

Once berries are frozen, combine them with cold syrup in blender with a few teaspoons of ice water. Blend until smooth, adding more ice water if needed.

Enjoy immediately.

Mosquito is out,
it’s the end of the day;
she’s humming and hunting
her evening away.
Who knows why such hunger
arrives on such wings
at sundown? I guess
it’s the nature of things.

—N. M. Bodecker,
Midsummer Night Itch

Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

June is a waking dream, a dreamy wakefulness — a dream within a dream. 

Beneath the ancient magnolia, where the earth is cool as a stream and filtered light flickers across your skin like stardust, the crickets have lulled you to sleep. The summer air is a fragrant amalgam of magnolia, bee balm, rose and gardenia, and as you breathe, your dreamscape becomes a fertile garden, lush and vibrant, fueled by the essence of this sensuous season.

Chorus frogs and cicadas join the mélange. Butterflies arrive — a heavenly surge of them — followed by a procession of bees, a metallic troupe of beetles, a shimmer of ruby-throated hummingbirds.

Each breath is the thread of a gorgeous tapestry — an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of movement, color, sound and light. Each breath pollinates the garden.   

You open your eyes.

Were you sleeping, or is this all a dream?

A dragonfly hovers above your head before lighting on your finger like some kind of pet bird. In its stillness, you study those iridescent wings, that thin missile of a body, those monstrous, all-seeing eyes. Again, you wonder: A dream?

As it stares back, eyes like glittering mirrors, you think it could have dreamed you, too.

Green was the silence, wet was the light,
the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
— Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

Tastes Like Summer

Strawberry rhubarb pie. Poetry, isn’t it? Imagine the baker who churned out the first one. 

Why? No need to ask questions. Just . . . thank them.

Reportedly, rhubarb was introduced to the gardens and pies of our continent in the 1700s, after a Maine gardener procured the seed from Europe. Although its leaves are toxic to humans, its celery-like stalks (petioles) are packed with health benefits and take on the flavor of whatever they’re cooked with. Strawberries, in this case.

So, is it a fruit or is it a veggie? Botanists call it the latter. And since its early years in the States, the rhubarb has been dubbed the “pie plant.”

June 9 is National Strawberry Rhubarb Pie Day. Yes, a whole day devoted to this seasonal knockout. If you’re making one from scratch, consider adding orange zest. But don’t stress over the lattice crust. Minor details.

Golden Days

Summer is here, and with it, honeysuckle and roses. Iced tea and pesto. Cucumbers and snap beans straight from the vine. Father’s Day lands on Summer Solstice — Sunday, June 20 — the longest day of the year. Soak up the daylight with pops. If he’s earthside, make memories. Go fish. Build a trellis. Fire up the grill. Alive in spirit? Plant a tree in his honor. Feel the warmth of the sun, the coolness of the soil, and remember him.

On Thursday, June 24, the Full Strawberry Moon rises in the afternoon. This month’s showstopper will be the last of three supermoons of 2021. Closer to the Earth, it may appear larger and brighter than usual. But such is the magic of Midsummer.

Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

May is a blushing bride, lips sweet as plump strawberries, humming an ancient rhyme for luck.

Something old (snakeskin), something new (four eggs), something borrowed (birdhouse), something blue (songbird).

The second stanza starts with honeyed warbles. Tu-a-wee sings the bluebird on the pitched roof of the birdhouse. Tu-a-wee trills the bluebird at the nest.   

Verse three is the sound of movement through soft grass. In the black of night — a shadowy flash — four eggs swallowed one by one.

Lucky rat snake, with its new skin, its luscious fluidity, its bellyful of tender life.

Lucky rabbit, nibbling in the garden at dawn, bellyful of baby lettuce, salad greens, Swiss chard, snow peas.

May is a banquet, a ceremony, a celebration.

It is the vow from bee to flower, flower to bee. The sacred oath to give until there is nothing left.

And there is so much here.

An apple blossom for the maiden. Wild berries for the groom. An ancient rhyme. Sweet nectar and the tender, green promise of a full and luscious life — pleasant and bitter, in darkness and in light. 

It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what. ― John Galsworthy, The Forsyte Saga

Strawberry Fields

Behold the earliest strawberries, fat and sweet. Like love notes from summer, ripe for the picking.    

And if ever you picked them straight from the bush, perhaps you’ve noticed that they smell as scrumptious as they taste. Members of the rose family, strawberry plants are perennial. Fruit can be picked green (pickle them) or ripe (you’ll know what to do), but don’t fret if they’ve gone a bit soft. Instead, make wine —  or jam.

You won’t need much: Two pounds of fresh strawberries (mash them), four cups of white sugar and one-fourth cup of fresh lemon juice. One heavy bottomed saucepan, too.

Stir mixture over low heat until sugar dissolves, then bring to a full rolling boil, stirring often, for about 15 minutes.

Sure, you can transfer to hot sterile jars, seal and process — or save yourself the trouble. Let cool and eat right away.

The May Wreath

May takes its name from the Roman goddess Maia, midwife of plants, flowers and the riotous beauty of spring.

Speaking of flowers, it’s time to gather them.

On the first of the month, May Day, celebrate this fertile, fruitful season by fashioning a wreath of twigs and greenery. Weave in wildflowers: crab apple, dogwood, painted trillium. Add pomegranate, garlic, herbs and nettle. Hang it on your door until midsummer night.

Wreath-making is an ancient Greek custom believed to ward off evil and invite prosperity. The act itself is a sacred dance between the weaver and the natural world. PS

Almanac

April is the earliest fawn, dewy eyed and trembling, landing in a world so soft and tender you can barely remember the deep silence, the bleak landscape, the icy ache of winter.

The nectar of spring flows steady as milk from the mother. It is the wet kiss from doe to teetering fawn. It is here, now. And it is delectable.

Like the fawn, we’ve awakened to a warm and gracious Earth that simply gives.

A tabernacle of peepers sings out.

In the garden, thin spears of asparagus rise like tiny prayers to the sun, young turnips humming songs of the cool soil. Cottontail rabbit grows plump.

Purple martins chatter inside birdhouse gourds and everywhere — everywhere you look — edible flowers bloom.

Rosy pink redbud bursting from bare-branched limbs. Violet and clover spilling across lawns. Forsythia and dandelion mushroom like palatable sunshine. 

Even wisteria — sweet, aromatic miracle — twists around fences, buildings and treetops like ruche fringe, a garden party for this tender new world.

The trees are leafing out. There is pollen for the wasps, the beetles, the bees. And, do you hear that?

The chorus frogs have reached a crescendo, their many squeaking voices one.

The canticle of spring is growing stronger. Whitetail baby mews along.

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

— Edna St. Vincent Millay

Canticle of the Sun and Moon (flowers) 

Now that we’ve made it past the last frost, bring on the summer bulbs: gladioli (sword lily), flamboyant cannas, caladium (aka, heart of Jesus, angel wings, elephant ears).

Sew the first of the sunflowers.

And — at the end of the month — moonflowers.

Although they look like morning glories, which open at the earliest touch of light, moonflowers blossom beneath the stars — each ephemeral bloom lasting just one night. Kissed by the light of a near-full moon, the fragrant white flowers are nothing short of enchanting. Create your very own Midsummer Night’s Dream, plus or minus a mischievous garden sprite or two.

Poetry Month

What is a flower but a poem? Same of a tree, a nest, an egg.

Of course April is National Poetry Month. Look around. Birds weaving tapestries of needles and grasses. Spring tulips. Dogwoods like angelic flashes of white in naked woods. And, three words: violet blossom jelly.

Harvest wild ones in the morning. Three heaping handfuls. Place them in a pretty bowl.

Add boiling water. Stir, then keep covered for one rotation of the Earth.

Tomorrow, strain the liquid — deep and dark and blue. Add lemon juice; boil. Add cane sugar and pectin; boil and behold: wild fuchsia magic.

Just add toast.  PS

Almanac

March is as harsh as it is hopeful. The earth is aflame with tender new grasses. Dead-nettle spills across the lawn like a sea of purple kisses. The birds are twittering on high and the dog is cradling something in its mouth, looking up as if to say you’ve got to see this.

You are equally relieved and horrified to discover that whatever she’s holding is pink and wriggling and very much alive.

“Drop it,” you say.

And so, she does. On a soft patch of earth dotted with dandelion. 

Blind and hairless, the newborn squirrel is utterly helpless. You look up to the fork of a nearby oak, hoping to see a wild, leafy tangle of nest. Back when the world was gold-and-rust, leaves rustling like starlings with each gust, you’d witnessed its construction. And by some miracle — because what held by sticks and faith is not — the nest is still intact. You scoop up the babe with a thin cloth, place it at the base of a tree like a sacred offering, back away and wait.

The dog is whimpering. She looks up at you with the worried expression of a mother, back to the squirrel, so pink and vulnerable, then back to you.

Patience, you tell the dog as a reminder to yourself. The earth beneath you softens, yet there’s a chill you cannot shake.

An hour passes. You have nearly given up hope that mother squirrel will arrive, but she does. And in an instant, she is gone, scurrying up the tree with the babe in her mouth.

March winds can be cruel. But dog was dog, not snake or hawk. And in spring, there is always hope.

Just listen to the birds.

I glanced out the window at the signs of spring. The sky was almost blue, the trees were almost budding, the sun was almost bright. — Millard Kaufman

Princess of the Pea

Although the robin has been announcing its return for weeks, official spring arrives on March 20 — and with it, the glorious, flowering redbud.

Blue sky or gray, redbud blossoms are utterly electric by contrast, seemingly more vibrant by the day. The Eastern redbud (Cercis canadensis), also known as the Judas tree, is a tree of the pea family. Christian folklore tells that this now small and somewhat dainty tree once stood tall and mighty as an oak and that, when Judas betrayed Christ, he hanged himself from one. But let’s talk instead of their delicate clusters of rosy pink flowers, shall we?

Yep, they’re edible. High in Vitamin C. And that they burst from bare-bone limbs before the tree’s first heart-shaped leaves never fails to dazzle. Pickle them or transform your spring salad into a work of art with a sprinkling or a sprig.

As for the seeds and pods? Edible, too. Eat the Weeds [eattheweeds.com], a blog for foraging newbies, suggests using the unopened buds as a caper substitute. 

Just add pasta, garlic and butter.

In the Garden

Mid-month, transplant broccoli, cauliflower and cabbage into the garden. Ditto lettuce and spinach. And get ready for April. After the last frost, it’s time again to sow your summer garden. The earth is softening. But the birds tell you everything you need to know: spring is here.  PS

Alamanac

By Ashley Wahl

February is the space between the darkest hour and the earliest light. A paper-thin sliver of silver moon. A sensuous world of deep silence.

High in the towering pine, a pair of great horned owls sit with their clutch in the black of night, yellow eyes like ancient, swirling galaxies. In this realm of shadow and mystery — this wintry temple of stillness — they are the wisdom keepers. And they are always listening.

Warm beneath the great horned mother, three white spheres hold tiny, secret worlds. Days from now, the brood will hatch. But in this moment, all is quiet. Until it isn’t.

On the forest floor, movement flickers like a light in the dark. There’s a faint rustling of leaves. The stealthy owl king twists his head until he targets the source, seeing with his ears before his eyes. Hare? Mouse? We’ll never know. Nature holds her secrets close.

February heightens the senses. Silence cradles every sound, and you can feel it — the charged nothingness before the rhythmic hoots of the great horned beasts. The charged nothingness that follows.

Mystery flirts with your mind like wind dancing through metal chimes.

Just before the earliest light, you hear what sounds for all the world like the piercing, primal scream of a banshee. You are half frightened, half delighted, which speaks to your own primal nature. Next, you hear a sequence of yips and yups. A shriek and more yups. Then, silence.

You suspect what you’ve heard is a pair of foxes, but only the owl knows for sure. And in this sacred window between darkness and light — this thin crescent moon of a month — nature holds her secrets close.

When you listen with your soul, you come into rhythm and unity with the music of the universe. — John O’Donohue

Year of the Ox

Friday, February 12, marks the celebration of the Chinese New Year — day after the new moon. Cue the paper lanterns for the Year of the Ox, a year of hard work and, let’s hope, positive change. According to ancient myth, twelve animals raced to the Jade Emperor’s party to determine which order they would appear in the zodiac. The ox is the second because, well, the rat tricked it. All of this to say, trust your gut — and get ready for a good year in your garden.

Winter Bloomers

What is that spicy, glorious aroma, you ask? That would be paperbush (Edgeworthia chrysantha), which gets its name from its bark, not its fragrant yellow flowers.

Paperbush is a deciduous shrub that blossoms in late winter. Native to the Himalayas, China and Japan, this winter bloomer prefers moist, rich soil and a shaded landscape. And with its elegant silhouette and bluish, almost silvery foliage, it dazzles all year.

Speaking of bluish . . . let’s talk about violets. Blue violet, purple violet, hooded violet, wood violet, meadow violet, woolly blue violet. Whatever you call it, the birth flower of February is an herbaceous perennial celebrated for carpeting the winter landscape. They’re edible, too. Although the common violet grows wild along our East Coast, there are hundreds of species of violet (genus Viola), first cultivated by the Greeks circa 500 B.C.

According to Greek myth, hunter-goddess Artemis transformed one of her nymphs into a violet — not, say, a red rose — when the huntress’s twin, Apollo, tried to pursue her. Thus, the violet is said to represent modesty and humility. It’s also been known as the “lesbian flower,” and in 1927, a play called The Captive featured a female character sending violets to another female character. The production stirred the pot, so to speak, with its conspicuous theme of lesbianism and was eventually shut down. But in 1978, the color violet made its way into the rainbow flag for San Francisco’s Gay Freedom Celebration. Violets are for everyone.  PS

Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

January cold guides us inward. You find yourself studying your hands, quietly tracing the lines of your palms when, suddenly, there is movement in the periphery. A flash — and then nothing.

The mouse is back. How he gets inside you’ll never know. And yet, the mystery keeps you smiling, keeps you guessing. You catch and release him into the yard again, and as he scurries off, heart pounding like a tiny hammer, you wait for him to turn around, maybe wink his beady eye as if to say see you ’round.

Here we are again, January. By some miracle we’ve made it. And just like the mouse, we carry with us new stories, new wisdom from our journey.

This is a time for planning and dreaming.

You order seeds.

Next month, when the first of the daffodils burst through the soil in rapturous glory, you’ll sow sugar snaps and snow peas, carrots and parsnips, lettuce and spinach, maybe mustard seeds. But for now, you’re back to quiet contemplation, thoughtfully observing the lines on the back of your hands. The etchings and wrinkles begin to resemble the rings of a tree. There are stories here, you think. Lessons in each tiny groove.

And out of the blue, Aesop’s Fables pops into
your mind.

“The Ants & the Grasshopper”: There’s a time for work and a time for play.

“The Crow & the Pitcher”: In a pinch a good use of our wits may help us out.

“The Lion & the Mouse”: A kindness is never wasted.

You think of that crafty house mouse, smiling at his persistence and how you’re not so different from him. Your needs are the same: food, shelter and warmth. No doubt you both dream of the tender kiss of spring. And like the mouse, you, too, rely on a kindly universe to smile upon you, to gently guide you along your journey, granting you stories and wisdom for your future travels.

January is a year of lessons in the making. Notice the creatures, great and small, that remind us how to live. And remember: you are one of them.

Winter Blooms

Nature always gives us what we need. And in the dead of winter, when the bleakness of the landscape nearly becomes too much to bear, she gives us flowers.

Prunus mume, commonly known as flowering apricot, blooms in January. Its delicate, fragrant flowers — pink, red or white — ornament naked branches much like the cherry blossoms of official spring. Amazingly, this small, ornamental fruit tree was virtually unknown in the United States prior to the spirited efforts of the late Dr. J.C. Raulston, beloved horticulturist and founder of the nationally acclaimed arboretum at N.C.S.U. Raulston devoted his life to growing and sharing rare and spectacular plants, P. mume among them. This month, when its vibrant flowers offer their spicy aroma and the promise of spring, surely, whisper, thank you.

Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering ‘it will be happier’ . . . — Alfred Lord Tennyson 

Looking Out, Looking Up

How will your garden grow? Per Aesop’s “Ants & the Grasshopper” fable, now’s a good time to plan ahead. This month, order quality seeds and map out a planting calendar for year-round harvest. Sure, it will take a bit of work. The ants know something about that. But educating yourself on what to plant and when is a game changer. And when you’re harvesting fresh veggies from your backyard spring through winter, no doubt you’ll be singing like a grasshopper in June. 

But while you’re planning, don’t forget to look up. Although a waning gibbous moon will try to outshine it, the Quadrantid meteor shower will peak on Sunday, January 3, from 2 a.m. until dawn. The first new moon of the New Year lands on Wednesday, January 13. Consider this cosmic reset a good time to set intentions and launch into a new project. Through darkness comes light.

Almanac

December Almanac

By Ashley Wahl

December is here and, with it, the sound of a single cricket. One distant, mechanical song. A message transmitted across space and time.

The stars are out. You cannot sleep. And so, you listen.

Months ago, when the crape myrtle scattered her crinkled petals like pink confetti upon the earth beneath her, an orchestra of crickets filled the night with a song thick as honey. And months from now, when the vines are heavy with ripening fruit, they will sing again, knitting an afghan of sound by moonlight — gently tucking you into bed.

On this cold December night, the cricket transmission grows clearer. You follow it like a single thread of yarn until you receive it:

There is no end, the cricket sings. Only change.

Somehow, this message brings you comfort.

December isn’t an abrupt or happy ending. There is no hourglass to turn. No starting over. Just a continuum. An endless stream of light and color ever-shifting like a dreamy kaleidoscope.

December is sharing what’s here: our warmth, our abundance, what we canned last summer.

This year and the cold have softened us. We feed our neighbors, feed the birds, open our hearts and doors.

The camellia blossoms. Holly bursts with scarlet berries. From the soil: gifts of iris, phlox and winter-flowering crocus.

The cricket offers his song — a tiny thread guiding us toward the warmth of spring — and we listen.

This listening, too, is a gift. Sometimes it’s all we’ve got. And, sometimes, that listening is itself a simple thread of hope.

December’s wintry breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer’s memory . . . – John Geddes

You Gotta Eat Your Spinach, Baby

Fortunately, many nutrient rich greens thrive in our winter gardens. Especially spinach. And what’s not to love about it?

Enter pint-sized Shirley Temple, ringlets bouncing as she marches past a small ensemble to join Jack Haley and Alice Faye centerstage:

“Pardon me, did I hear you say spinach?” she asserts with furrowed brow and her punchy, sing-songy little voice. “I bring a message from the kids of the nation to tell you we can do without it.”

And then, song:

No spinach! Take away that awful greenery

No spinach! Give us lots of jelly beanery

We positively refuse to budge

We like lollipops and we like fudge

But no spinach, Hosanna!

And now for the opposing view: In the 1930s, the spinach industry credited cartoonist Elzie Crisler (E.C.) Segar and his muscly armed sailor man for boosting spinach consumption in the U.S. by 33 percent.

But why-oh-why did he eat it from a can?

Longer shelf life, no doubt. Also, cooked spinach contains some health benefits that raw spinach does not. Raw spinach is rich in folate, vitamin C, niacin, riboflavin and potassium, but it also contains oxalic acid, which can hinder the body’s absorption of essential nutrients like calcium and iron.

According to Vegetarian Times, eating cooked spinach allows you to “absorb higher levels of vitamins A and E, protein, fiber, zinc, thiamin, calcium and iron.”

In other words: You gotta eat your spinach, baby.

Starry, Starry Night

Well, this is perfect: The Geminid meteor shower will be peak from mid-evening December 13 until dawn December 14 — a new moon. That means the show will be unobstructed from moonlight, and if conditions are right, you might catch up to 120 meteors per hour.

Some believe this prolific shower ramps up every year. We’ll see. Regardless, may we allow this celestial pageant to remind us of the wonder and beauty that so often graces us.

And don’t forget to make a wish.  PS