August is hitting me hard this year.
Usually this is the point in the season where I feel a little weary of weeding and watering, but still take joy in the colors, the birds and the slow slide toward fall. This summer feels different. I’m restless in the garden, overwhelmed and — if I’m being honest — struggling to enjoy it.
The pests have been relentless. Whole plantings were chewed down before they had a chance to grow and set flowers and what survived feels lackluster. I'm constantly peering at the tomatoes trying to figure out if something is stealing this year's fruit before it has a chance to ripen.
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| This tomato plant looks suspicious, right? As if something is chewing the fruit and stems right off? |
The tall phlox, normally a highlight, just looks … meh. I did find one good patch of it though.
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| Assorted perennial phlox finally blooming. |
The projects I hoped to finish, like working on the paths for the front and back gardens, have stalled out in the heat and humidity. With the sun so intense and my autoimmune condition limiting my time outdoors, I often find myself standing at the edge of the garden, unsure where to even begin. And just feeling super frustrated.
There are still bright spots. Some of the zinnias are finally blooming, with ombre pink and orange hues that almost glow in the sunlight. The monarch butterflies have been visiting the milkweed along my driveway. Maybe soon I'll find eggs or caterpillars. The hummingbirds zip happily between the native honeysuckle, jewelweed and cuphea. I've been watching fledgling birds pester their parents for food at the bird feeder — which always makes me smile.
But still, the balance feels off this year. Instead of calm and respite, the garden feels like an endless list of tasks, a mirror of the larger unsettled world. I want the garden to be my place of peace, but right now it’s another place that feels heavy. Part of the issue is that there is no place to sit and relax this year. Usually my covered tent area offers this ability to sit and observe (and photograph wildlife) but the space is still occupied as a staging area for repotting of houseplants and other outdoor planters that I've been late to set out.
As for tasks, I'm not getting much completed. Yesterday I planted just two petunias by the road and decided that had to be enough. And maybe that’s the lesson of this August: sometimes a small act of tending is all we can do and that has to be good enough. Not every season will be our favorite. Some years the garden sings; some years it groans. But the cycle will turn again and there will be fresh chances for joy.
At least that is what I keep telling myself.
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