Gathering marigolds before rain
In a society obsessed with efficient pursuit of profit, care feels like a radical act.
November is a season of mourning for me, and also of hope as I gather the seeds that will grow in the new year. The connection that helps make sense of it all is love.
On this day six years ago, the world lost a wonderful young man, suddenly and tragically. I have decided it’s okay to feel what this season brings up, as fighting it never works anyway. I am allowing myself to be quiet and sit with the pain and loss and rest as much as I need to. The darkness is a lot, and I have not had much strength.
Some days, all I have in me is to care for the plants and animals, which is most of what I want from life anyway. Roscoe nudges me awake whether I like it or not, to look after the birds and the cats and the Snoopy who is not so much a dog as an otherworldly being, and I am grateful.
This day, Roscoe’s insatiable energy drags my mopey ass out to explore a new swath of public land. As Roscoe bounds out of the car, I am relieved to find no other humans in this place. It’s a funny thing to care so deeply about so many people, those I know and those I will never meet and those I will never see again, while mostly wanting to be in the company of anyone but humans.
I close my eyes and the warm sun washes over my face. I break into a deep belly laugh, shocking both myself and Roscoe. He cocks his head at me, then a low flying bird catches his eye and he launches himself, bouncing and swishing through the soft, dry grass to plunge head first into a scummy pond. He is stinky and filthy but so delighted with himself that it only escalates my delight.
This freak burst of joy fades as we circle the pond and wind through hilly prairie. I crouch in the tall grass, wishing to disappear into the brush, hushed and hidden until spring like the hibernating mammals that build their nests in the secret world below the snow. I could get into the dormouse life: pop out once a month, make sure I have what I need, curl up adorably and sleep through the worst of the year. No space in our world for that lifestyle I’m afraid, as I hear they’re going extinct.
Roscoe nudges me up and we climb to the top of the hill, where suddenly the smell of a nearby hog lot is overtaken by the tang of pine. I settle on a stump in the middle of the clearing and breathe, as Roscoe romps through the trees.
I feel so held by this surprise grove of evergreens. A bright fragrant, refuge rising from the brown expanse of dry November fields. Softly reminding me that life persists, but also inviting me in to pause and hide and do or feel whatever I need without observation or judgment.
I crumble the needles with my fingers and the smell transports me to the cemetery behind my great grandmother’s house. I remember the needles of those other pines crushed beneath my boots as I wander through the headstones with my mother, marveling at how long people lived back then–until I realize that that is what happens when people take care of each other. Everyone had a role, everyone shared with each other, and nobody was isolated.
The pandemic brought a wild proliferation of new ways to care for each other, mostly without proximity or physical touch. The distance was hard, even for an introvert like me. Even now, someone I love is sick with Covid and my instincts, even my dreams are telling me to go to her and hold her and comfort her until she is well.
Instead I leave her little gifts. Crosswords, tea, a coloring book, a warm meal. I try to make her laugh, check in on her though she insists she is fine. Our friend brings her gifts too, though she would probably call it mutual aid.
In November 2020, I missed family terribly, and threw myself into writing cards. I have always written letters, but this time I felt compelled to reach everyone I loved. I sat at the kitchen table for hours with my sweet cat Dusty, making seed packets to slip into each envelope. I chose marigolds because they are cheery, fragrant, easy to grow, and they protect your vegetables. Their cousin calendula may have been the wiser choice, as it can ease a fever, but there’s just something about the brassy, stinky marigold that has my heart.
This evening I hurry to collect the last of the marigold seeds, working into the darkness as weather is expected to move in by next light.
Accompanied by the nuzzles of a curious dog, I fumble through rough stalks in the dark, addicted to the soft, satisfying snap of the dry seed heads as they tumble through my hands into a waiting basket. My partner, who has shown me infinite forms of care, pulls in from the barn, shining the tractor light through the brush to aid my work.
As the seeds rattle into the basket, I think of my mother’s garden where I first met the marigold. My fingers remember poking little seeds into that cold dirt with her, and how quickly we worked together this spring preparing the beds I am standing in, to plant the crops that are now in my hands and my belly and my pantry. I gave my mother marigold seeds in 2020, along with a bit of everything else she loves to grow. I could save those seeds for her because she taught me to grow those plants, and now they are staples of my own garden.
As I finish my work, I think of everyone who is close to my heart but too far away to touch, and I know I can muster the strength to fold these seeds into tiny envelopes. As the days get colder I will sit by the fire and carve tiny flowers out of a potato to stamp on the packets. I will sign them with the name of the sweet cat who kept me company through the first batch of seeds. I will miss her terribly, and I will be filled with love.
P.S. Please let me know if you would like some marigold seeds, and thank you for reading.
Sharing marigold seeds show’s kindness and love. It is thoughtful. So many have a hard time during this season of expected cheer. Reality acknowledges the loss of life and how we miss them. I would love marigolds if you have some to spare. I’m slowly planting up the yard out back with herbs, flowers, fruit trees and in the spring, veggies. I plan on planting the three sisters corn, beans and squash after reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Kimmerer. Your neck of the woods are lovely even in the stark cold season. Sending warm thoughts.
"It’s a funny thing to care so deeply about so many people, those I know and those I will never meet and those I will never see again, while mostly wanting to be in the company of anyone but humans."
This sums it all up so perfectly. ❤️