Frost is coming. That is certain; what is uncertain is when it will arrive. When do I want the frost to arrive?
I don’t know.
It changes, by the hour. October is a glorious, and gloriously difficult, month. The flowers are stunning. In my opinion, every other month pales in comparison to October in this regard. Two weekends ago, I overheard one of my close friends tell someone, ‘October flowers are the best - or that’s what Katie says’. And that is what I say. (Get married in early October! That is my unsolicited advice to all you future brides out there.)
What is so hard about October, then?
Everything. This summer, in May, I printed out 6 months of the calendar from a free online calendar template. And then I taped them to the garage door. It felt slightly overwhelming, to be honest, that first weekend of the farmers’ market when I realized we’d be doing this (Chris, I and the kiddo) like 2 dozen more times before the end. Since then, I have been writing every special order, event, or flower engagement we have on those printed pages. Every time I enter or leave the house, I see the calendar and am reminded of what’s ahead (or what I need to be doing that day). Nothing exists for me if it’s not on that calendar. Every morning, I cross the previous day off of the calendar, watching the days of the season tick off, the way I counted down to my due date with our firstborn. There’s not much left to cross off on the calendar. I didn’t print November. I didn’t tape it up, and I don’t anticipate crossing any days off it, because I don’t think we’ll still have flowers in the field at that point.
All of that is to say, this is the sixth month of flowers in the field. Of course, I am insanely grateful for that. I am also tired, and I think I have carpal tunnel in one of fingers on my right hand from cutting and designing flowers, and I haven’t slept until 6 am on a Saturday in 6 months, and so on. I find myself ticking off the mental list of ‘last’ things for the season on the regular - ‘this may be the last time I wash buckets this season’ (helpful hint: do NOT become a flower farmer if you hate doing dishes; like a full 25% of what I do is wash and rinse things), ‘this may be the last farmers’ market with flowers’, ‘this may be the last weekly deliveries’, etc.
We are living in the uncertainty of the season right now.
Seasonal businesses cause you to live in anticipation, for both the very good (the first flowers!) and the not as very good (the first frost). In the liturgical calendar, we are in Ordinary Time. In the flower farm calendar, this is Advent. I’m not lighting candles, but I’m awaiting the arrival of something that changes everything and is always not what I anticipate or imagine.
We have been blessed (a word I mostly hate, but it applies here) with the solace and refuge of hard work, good customers, pleasant special events, and gorgeous flowers. It has truly been a haven in the storm of everything that has happened this year (the weather; politics - which I teach, so it’s always present; the grind of daily work and parenting and such; humanitarian crises), the kind of things that throw me off kilter and out of sync. I saw a post on Instragram about intermittent fasting (take it or leave it), and the one thing really made sense to me was the idea of getting outside and syncing up your circadian rhythms in the morning. That sounds like the kind of stuff (read: s**t) I would normally hate, but I don’t know - I’m a better, nicer person when I’m out in the field in the morning. We’re saying goodbye to that soon. Not the better, nicer Katie (but…maybe?), but the refuge of being in a place of beauty with purpose to do. My garage just isn’t that beautiful. But, like in Advent, you endure the waiting for the arrival of hope embodied again. It’s new and changeless every time.
From anticipation (frost) to anticipation (spring). That’s what we do. So, we’ll keep on anticipating until we can set our eyes on green again.