To Every Thing There is a Season

My favourite gardening magazine provides a handy “to do” list for each month:
when to prepare the soil for the vegetable garden, when to cut the specimens for tree grafting, when to distill the slurry of stinging nettles…   In September we add the frenzy of harvest and in October the frenzy of the fermenting wine.

Some years ago, when the November magazine arrived, I hesitated to open it.   The malolactic fermentation had finally finished;  the wine was “done” and pronounced good – a big relief after the usual weeks of worry.   What I certainly didn’t need that day was another list.   It was rainy and cold and all I wanted was to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea.

But being the dutiful sort I duly opened.  And there amidst the routine tasks for the cold and rainy season – “clean and sharpen tools”  “tidy up the greenhouse,”  were lines that could have been lifted from Ecclesiastes:   “Don’t forget to Rest.  In Spring it will all start up again.”

Indeed, November and December are when vignerons can pause.  The wine is settling, it’s too early to begin pruning, the earth is too soggy for tractors.

We mulled over this advice and decided to try an experiment.  We turned off social engagements, turned off the news.  Postponed meetings.  Compartmentalised our obligations to a few hours a day.   It was a sort of quarantine; 40 precious days of psychic withdrawal to silence the tyranny of tasks.

I used it to remember who I was before I became what the world asked me to be.

Instead of frustration at the short days, I rejoiced at early evening darkness, a reminder to stop bustling.  Instead of hurrying, I whistled for the dog and explored the forest, examined the trees, imagined the spirits who live in their roots and their boughs.  Caressed the moss and fern on their old trunks.  Sat down under an ancient oak.   I stopped talking to myself, let my antennae emerge and just listened.

After years of competition, it’s hard to let go of wanting to be first.  It’s hard to trust your own pace.  But somehow, by slowing down during that first quarantine, I finished draft one of my novel “Jeanne.”   John finished a magnificent oak sculpture that had been noodling in his mind for years.

That wonderful word: “finishing.”  Consider the tortoise and the hare.  No mere children’s fable about non-competition – it’s a parable about efficiency.   About confidence in your own rhythm.  When there are too many tasks, much is left undone, or done poorly, or not finished.  And often the most neglected “task” is what gives us the most joy.

A famous doctor once wrote that the first step for healing an illness was getting the patient into a state of well being and tranquillity.   This sets the stage for the body to use its own amazing tools to knit itself back together.  My own doctor told me I would not cure my insomnia until I started listening to my heart and acting in accordance.

I thought back on childhood competitions.   I swam, as did my siblings.  Our father was our biggest fan.   My talented sisters and brothers always brought home blue ribbons.   Mine were green, the colour of “4th place, such a pity.”   My father – bless his dear, loving heart – often said, “You are such a graceful swimmer, beautiful to watch.   But couldn’t you go a little faster?”

And so, I learned to go faster.   Even then I hated hurrying, but I learned to do it though I know it backfires:  I forget my glasses, my tickets, my phone, my balance.   I make the wrong decisions.   I trip and end up with bruises everywhere.

My father has been gone for decades but I keep his photo near.  His beautiful, poignant Irish singing revealed much about the longings of his soul.   I think deep down, he too hated hurrying.   He preferred playing with babies and beaming at his children.   He loved math problems, cat naps and stories.

I wish he could join me now as I pad quietly through the winery.   He would know the lullaby to sing, for it is like moving through a nursery, amidst rows of sleeping babies.   I lay my hands on the barrels, make a wish on the tanks.   They are resting in that miraculous time when they se bonifie.   They are “goodening up.”

Winter is upon us now.   A time of frost, fallen acorns crunching underfoot and the last of the persimmons.   A time for lullabies.  A time to nestle into that state of wonder where creative bubbles rise.   A season for goodening up.

“To every thing there is a season. And a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8