Fall Is Standing on the Doorstep

Late to the Party

This Red Hot Poker should have bloomed in July, but it is blooming now instead — covered in spiderwebs and cool fall dew.

There is a change happening lately. The rains are returning, and cool morning fog rolls out of the forest again. The sun sits lower in the sky, and the heater has started running. Mornings stay dark a little longer, and evenings grow dark a little sooner. The smell of moss and damp earth hangs in the air.

Fall has returned to the Pacific Northwest.

There is a version of fall that lives in our heads: steaming cups of apple cider, cozy sweaters, and the return of a slower, sleepier season. Spring and summer are the busy seasons, and the return of the rain signals that the time for rest has finally arrived.

I feel that same pull — the desire to curl up on the couch with a blanket and an audiobook, crocheting the dark evenings away. This is the season that finally gives us permission to do less.

But fall on our farm looks different.

The animals still need to be fed and their shelters cleaned. The projects that need to be finished by next summer still need to be finished by next summer, regardless of the weather.

Sometimes, this means pulling fencing while freezing, unrelenting rain pelts down until my fingers feel as though they might shatter like ice. Other times, it means digging trenches and installing drain lines in the middle of a winter storm because the coops have flooded and something needs to be done before they flood again.

Then there is the winter garden.

So often, I hear people talk about being grateful for their summer gardens and ready to pull everything up and rest until next year. Meanwhile, I am pulling up the last of my summer plants to make room for the winter garden.

I am fortunate to live somewhere that allows me to garden year-round. Our mild, maritime winters mean I can grow crops throughout the coldest months. But that privilege comes with its own responsibility: I have to show up for my garden all year, regardless of the weather.

Farm chores don't care about the season. They carry on regardless, and the farm continues to demand attention.

But the thing about fall is that the work feels different.

Shrinking daylight and worsening weather give every task an underlying sense of urgency. There is always the thought that I can't wait for the weather to break, except that in Western Washington, winter doesn't really yield. There is no guarantee that the conditions will improve before the next thing needs to be done.

Right now, I have projects that need to be finished by next summer, including preparing for spring lambs. If I don't get the necessary work done in time, there won't be lambs on our farm until the following year.

There is a sense of urgency now that wasn't there before. A looming question — What if I can't get it done in time? — that simply didn't exist a few months ago.

The option of planning around convenience feels like it is slipping away.

But there is another side to fall.

The farm might not allow me to rest, but that doesn't mean I can't experience the season.

There is something about coming inside after working in the pouring rain, the cold having worked its way into my bones, and sinking into a hot bath before curling up for a movie night with my toddler. Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, we are warm and cozy.

There are quiet, foggy mornings in the garden, too, when a rare beam of sunlight streams through the forest. Moments when the world feels still, even when there is so much left to do.

And sometimes, working in the fall is easier than working in the summer. The undergrowth is dying back for the year, making it much easier to pull fencing, even when the rain and wind make everything else more difficult.

There is still work to do, and sometimes it is incredibly difficult to muster the will to put on my rain gear and face the storm. There is no pretending otherwise.

But I love this time of year.

I love the smell that hangs in the air on a cool, clear morning.

I love the beauty that comes with the falling leaves.

I love the permission to slow down and get cozy, without the same pressure and expectation to always be doing more.

Winter is closing in, whether I am ready for it or not. There are unfinished jobs and things that need to get done before we plunge fully into the depths of winter. But the truth of farm work is that it is never entirely done.

Maybe that is something I am still learning: how to appreciate a season of change without waiting for all my responsibilities to disappear. How to find the quiet moments in between the work, rather than waiting for a day when there is no work left to do.

Fall is standing at the doorstep, and it's time to let her in.