The first month of spring, gone. Years seem to be passing faster. Seasons end, seasons begin, seasons end again. My face has aged with the acid winds of time, my muscles no longer what they used to be. I often ache after labour, though I rest well. I'm slower than my early years, although my mind is still fairly sound, motivation still intact. My resolve stands firm. Each year the cycle begins, it flourishes then depletes. Springtime is the beginning of each year for me. The garden becomes increasingly productive, generous and undeniably beautiful. As the season progresses our food becomes more dynamic, increasing options and offering new ingredients. The sun burns down making everything bright and cheery, including our spirits. The food becomes so plentiful we store and protect it for later use, the lean times are not too far away.
Like everything living, eventually the slow down to the end begins as autumn approaches. We measure our effort in jars of preserved fruit, jams, pickles, preserves, pumpkins and beans.
It doesn't come for nothing. You have to work hard at times. Hands become worn and craggy. Backs ache and morning sighs and stretches become more pronounced. Whatever pain may present itself, its counter balanced by the reward of the food. It's simplicity cannot be masked or shamed, instead its celebrated for it's richness. The winter approaches, we sit tight as nature slides into a total halt.
We warm ourselves with the timber we chopped the previous spring. We tend to winter chores and bless the effort we put in over the warm season. This way of living means you have to work with the seasons. It's in the fine print.
This is my life. I'm writing it all down. I plan to share it in a book. My second book. 'Spring to Winter - A year of Practiculture'.
In the hope that other people may embrace a year of practiculture and see what I see. Taste what I taste. Live what I live.