The End of Summer
The end of summer always sneaks up on me. I know it’s going to happen, but somehow I forget it comes so quickly. This was a challenging year with all the endless rain, and we lost so many plants before they even had a chance. The end is a bittersweet moment—watching the garden begin to die back, knowing that the brilliant blooms that brought so much joy will soon be gone. I spend a lot of time in my garden, not just planting and pruning, but being in the moment. My camera is always with me, capturing moments that might otherwise slip by unnoticed. It's a mindfulness practice for me—snapping pictures of flowers, bugs, bees, and the little bits of magic that appear when and where I least expect them. I’ve seen so much through that lens, and perhaps the most important lesson has been about perspective. The garden dying back isn’t just an ending; it’s part of a larger cycle that makes space for new beginnings.
There’s a certain grace in the way the flowers let go. They don’t resist the change; they simply allow it to happen. Petals curl and fade, leaves crisp at the edges, and the stems begin to bow. However, there’s no struggle—only acceptance. I often think we could all learn something from this gentle transition and surrender. As humans, we often suffer so much with this, seeking to control the seasons we go through. I sure know it is something I continue to work on in my own life. It’s all a reminder that letting go doesn’t have to be painful; it can be a beautiful, natural process if we allow it.
This time of year, I find myself walking through the garden more slowly, noticing the small details that are easy to miss when everything is in full bloom. The way a single rose petal falls gently to the ground, the intricate patterns of a dried hydrangea blossom, the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze—it’s all still so alive, even in the dying back. There’s a quiet magic in these moments, and it’s a magic that speaks to the heart.
It reminds me of a photograph I took of a rose once. It wasn’t the most spectacular bloom, but when I looked at it closely, there was a little dancing figure in the corner of the shot—my garden fairy, maybe, or just a trick of the light. My son, the ever-practical one, said it was just the light and shadows, but I choose to see the magic. I choose to believe in the beauty that’s all around us, even when it’s subtle, even when it’s fading.
Watching the garden transition from summer to fall is a lesson in perspective. It’s easy to see the withering flowers and feel a sense of loss, but if you shift your view just a little, you see the beauty in the change.
The garden isn’t dying; it’s simply preparing for a rest, gathering strength for the next season. And isn’t that what we all need sometimes? A moment to pause, to rest, to let go of what’s no longer needed, gathering our strength so that we can come back stronger.
So, as I watch my garden wind down, I try to embrace this transition. I tuck in the plants, knowing that they will return in their own time. I scatter seeds, trusting that they will take root when they’re ready. And I remind myself that it’s okay to let things die back, to allow space for new growth. It’s okay to take a step back and simply observe, allowing the magic of Mother Nature to unfold when we stop trying to control every little thing.
Because, in the end, the garden knows what it’s doing. It doesn’t need me to fuss over it constantly; it just needs me to be present, to appreciate its beauty, and to let it be. There’s a peace that comes with that realization—a peace that I carry with me as I move through the changing seasons, both in the garden and in life. So here’s to the end of summer, to the quiet wisdom of the garden, and to the magic that’s everywhere, moving into this next season.
