Harvest Season
London must be further north than I had realized; sunset makes dinnertime darker, day by day. We’re in the steep part of the bell curve: clearly not summer anymore.
Just as my recovery from first trimester coincided suspiciously with cherry blossoms and sunshine, my third trimester energy drop doesn’t feel coincidental. But it’s here: I’m sleepier, less focused. Energy and inspiration come in bouts.
I would mind the productivity drop more, but I can’t hold onto the frustration; little matters much, just now. Instead, I have books and yarn, tea, chicken soup.
When I do go out, cool air and a body in motion feel good. On Hampstead Heath, leaves swirl and fireweed seeds blow.
I volunteer at the garden of a climbing center, and after turning the compost, it’s apple pressing day. The apples are small and tart, but the milled apple pulp flows freely from the burlap pressing cloths even before the crank is turned.
With other volunteers and community gardeners, I chop two wheelbarrows of fruit. The bottles and demijohns are filled too fast, dark sweet cider spilling to the ground, bouncing spaniel sneaking scraps below the table and zipping back and forth between our legs.
When you are close to the land, the season of coming darkness is transformed to harvest, a season of bounty. At the lunchtime…
