When the Season Slows
Growth isn’t always visible. Sometimes it’s happening beneath the surface.
Good Morning Sunshines.
The garden is quiet now. The days start later, the air feels heavier, and even the light has softened and goodness knows it gets dark so early. It’s the season when things slow down whether we’re ready or not. I’ve spent the last few weeks clearing beds, cutting back what’s done, and gently preparing the soil for rest. There’s something deeply humbling about it, watching a space that was bursting with life begin to exhale.
This is the time when the garden teaches me most. I used to see fall as an ending. Now I see it as an invitation to root down. To prepare for rest not as retreat, but as growth in disguise. Plants pull their energy inward, storing what they’ll need to bloom again come spring. Maybe that’s what we’re meant to do too.
Two weeks ago, I planted garlic in the back bed. Each clove tucked carefully into the soil, covered and marked for the months ahead. It’s one of my favorite rituals because it asks for patience. You won’t see the results for a while, but you trust they’re happening beneath the surface. There’s a quiet kind of faith in that.
As I worked, I noticed how much I wanted to hold onto what was still green. But part of this season’s work is knowing what to keep and what to let go. The garden doesn’t bloom year-round, and neither should we.
Garden Notes (that I’ll carry through the week)
Clear what’s no longer serving the soil or yourself.
Keep what’s still thriving.
Cover what needs protection.
Let what’s finished return to the earth.
Simple rhythms, but they’ve changed the way I move through life. The more I’ve learned to work with the garden instead of against it, the easier it’s become to recognize when I’m holding on out of habit. Some things need time below the surface. Some need to rest before they rise again.
This weekend, I spent an afternoon harvesting the last of the salad greens. I walked the yard, clipping what was left, pulling weeds that had crept in quietly while I wasn’t looking, making sure all the garden tools were put away, and my new bird feeder was stocked to brim. It wasn’t hard work, just steady work, the kind that clears both soil and mind. By the end of the day, I felt lighter…grounded.
Maybe that’s the lesson November keeps offering. Rest isn’t giving up; it’s tending to what’s unseen. The roots are still alive beneath the frost. The work continues, just differently. We’re allowed to pause, to cover, to wait. Growth doesn’t disappear in stillness, it just changes form.
So as I close the garden beds for the season, I’m learning to see this quiet as part of the cycle, not a break from it. The garden is still teaching, even now.
XO,
Indie
This. I have been doing a lot of hard self growth work the past few years since my Dad passed. I largely dont see it, until things come up and I handle it differently. More evolved and wiser.