When September Feels Different at Alder Creek

There is something different about September this year.

I have been trying to decide if it's weather, the garden, the calendar -- or maybe just me.

Labor Day seems to have taken its sweet time arriving this year, leaving us with a little more summer than usual.  And yet somehow, the first cool mornings have already begun creeping in around the edges.  The kind where you step outside with your coffee and realize you need a sweater.  

The kind where the grass is wet with dew, the garden is heavy with one last round of produce, and the air smells faintly of rain.

The kind that whispers:

Fall is coming.

And this year, I am noticing it in a different way.

Because our family is changing.

The Last Little Pieces of Summer

Here at Alder Creek, summer doesn't really end all at once.

It lingers.

In the garden.

In baskets of produce (tomatoes, jalapeño peppers and more) sitting on the counter.

In flowers that refuse to quit blooming.

In zucchini that somehow still appear overnight.

In the last handfuls of berries.

In the jars and freezer bags and baskets of things we're trying to desperately to preserve before the garden finally says that's enough this year.

I've always loved this part of gardening.  The abundance is almost overwhelming.  After months of planting, watering, weeding, waiting, and wondering if anything would actually grow, September gives us that final generous offering.

One last harvest.

One last bouquet.

One last morning walking between the rows.

And then we begin putting things to bed.

The garden gets tidied.

The tools find their way back to their places.

The beds begin to empty.

Seeds are saved.

Plans are made for the next year.

We button up summer.

But this year, it feels like I'm buttoning up more than the garden.

The School Year That Feels Different

Back- to- school has always carried a certain kind of chaos and excitement around here.

School supply shopping, new shoes, schedules, sports schedules, medical forms, missing water bottles and the inevitable realization that someone has outgrown half their clothes since spring.  Maybe it is because I am an educator by trade that there is this certain excitement of welcoming staff back and kicking off the year so to speak that helps make this time usually exciting.

But this year feels different.  

One of ours is starting Freshman year! And at the same time, starting the reality of working full time.  There is something about watching your child step into that combination of school and work that makes you realize just how quickly the little years disappear.  

There are still moments when I look at him and see the little kid who needed me for everything, and let's be real still needs some things from me.   But now he is learning responsibility.  Learning how to manage his time.  Learning what it means to show up when you don't necessarily feel like it.   

Learning that adulthood doesn't arrive in one dramatic moment.  

It comes quietly.  

One responsibility at a time. 

And while part of me wants to freeze tie, another part of me is incredibly proud to watch him find his space and become capable. 

Maybe that is the hardest part of motherhood.

Wanting him to grow while secretly wishing the growing would slow down.

And Then There's Wyoming

And then there's Wyoming.

My oldest kid is getting ready to head off on a new adventure there.

Which means we've suddenly become experts in the art of last minute gatherings.   

A text is sent from work.

"Mom going to so and so's for the night."  Or to the state fair or any of the many other things he does with his friends.  

And somehow, the house feels emptier.  

OR

A text goes out.  

"Is everyone around?"

"Come over."

And somehow, the house fills up. 

Friends appear.

There is laughter in the house.

Someone is eating straight from the refrigerator.

Someone is telling a story from years ago.

And I stand somewhere nearby pretending I'm not trying to memorize every single second.  Because I know these moments are changing.

Soon, the driveway won't be filled with the same cars.

The house won't be quite as noisy.

The spontaneous gatherings will require more planning.

And Wyoming will be part of our family's story.

I am excited.

I really am.

But motherhood has taught me that pride and heartache can live in the same place.  You can be thrilleds for your children and miss them before they've even left.  You can know they're ready while wondering if you are ready.  You can encourage them to go while quietly wishing you could keep them home just a little longer.

That is the strange magic of raising children. 

Eventually, the goal isn't to keep them close.

It's to give them roots strong enough to leave and make it!

 

So in a few weeks we will pack our oldest up and trek to Wyoming where we will get him settled for a year into his new schooling adventure.  I am sure I will have all the mom feels then to share about. 

Then Came the Rain

And just like that....

Rain.

The first real Oregon rain always feels like an event after a long summer.  It just so happens to have been during the final week of summer for many, the Oregon State Fair week, and heading into the final summer weekend of Labor Day.  

The sound on the roof.

The smell of wet earth.

The way the garden suddenly looks greener.

The muddy boots by the door.

The chickens looking personally offended by the weather.

And me?

I'm probably happier than I should be.

Because rain means fall.

And fall means slowing down.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Although anyone who has ever lived on a little farm or property knows there is no such thing as truly slowing down.  There is always something to harvest.

Something to preserve.  Something to clean.  Something that needs fixing.  Something the animals have decided to get into.  But the pace changes. The urgency of summer begins to soften. And I find myself looking forward to evenings inside.  Warm food.  A fire.  Rain against the windows.  Sweaters and snuggle blankets.  And perhaps a little more time to simply be.

Learning the Let the Seasons Change

Maybe that's why this September feels different.

The garden is changing.

The weather is changings.

Our routines are changing. 

And our kids are changing.

The younger one is getting older.

The older one is getting ready to leave.

The house is slowing becoming a place where we won't have everyone under one roof every day.

And I am learning that motherhood isn't really about holding on.  

It's about learning when to loosen your grip.

I think about that when I'm in the garden.  

A flower blooms because it is supposed to bloom.

Then it fades.

It drops its petals. 

It makes seeds. 

And those seeds become next year's possibility.  

The flower doesn't cling to the season that made it.  It simply moves into the next one.  Maybe there is something to learn from that.

One More Walk Through the Garden

So lately, I've been taking a little more time.

Walking through the garden before dinner.

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Picking tomatoes while they're still warm from the afternoon sun.  Admiring my still flowing zinnias' and checking the fruit trees.  

Looking at what grew and what didn't.  Thinking about what I'll plant next year.  

And sometimes, just standing there.  

Because I know there will come a day when this particular garden looks different. 

The kids will be different.

The house will be different.

We will be different.

That's the thing about building a life.  You don't really notice it happening  You just wake up one morning and realize you've lived through another season.

September at Alder Creek

So I'm trying to resist the urge to rush into fall.

I am going to let September be September.

I am going to enjoy the late garden bounty.

I am going to listen to the rain.

I am going to say yes to those last minute gatherings.

I am going to watch my freshman learn independence.

I am going to cheer for my oldest heading towards Wyoming.

I am going to preserve what I can.

Gather what is left.  Save the seeds.  Clean up the garden.  And tuck away the things that belong to summer.  Because that's what we do here at Alder Creek. 

We grow things.  We gather.  We preserve.  We let go.

And then, when the season turns, we begin again.  

Maybe that's what September is teaching me.  

That letting go isn't the opposite of love.  Sometimes, letting go is one of the ways we love the best.   

The garden will rest, the rain will com and the house may get a little quieter.  And somewhere beyond our little corner of Oregon, a new adventure is beginning.  

I will miss them.  Of course I will.  But I'll also be here.  With my muddy boots by the door.  A basket of produce on the counter. Flowers drying somewhere they probably shouldn't be.  A cup of coffee beside me and a garden waiting for anther spring.  

Because seasons change.

Children grow.

Life moves forward. 

Somehow, through all of it, home remains.

Welcome to September at Sweet Williams of Alder Creek.  

We're buttoning up summer......

and making room for what's next.