This week, it finally happened — that unmistakable shift into fall on the farm. One day I was stepping outside in a light sweater, and the next I was rummaging for my heavy jacket, breath puffing into the cold morning air. Here in Canada, autumn doesn’t always wander in gently. Sometimes it just arrives all at once, with a crisp wind that reminds you the garden is finished for the year.
The beds are plowed now, resting under their blanket of soil until spring. The tulip bulbs were tucked in a few weeks ago, each one carefully spaced and covered, like little promises sleeping quietly underground. With that final task done, I set my garden shovel aside — a small ritual that always feels like closing a chapter. There’s a bittersweetness to it, but also a deep relief. The busy season has ended. It’s time to slow down.
Of course, slowing down doesn’t mean disconnecting from nature. If anything, I feel more attuned to it now. My daily walks have shifted from checking blooms to admiring the soft golds and russets along the trails, the sound of leaves crunching under my boots. The fields around the farm feel quieter, calmer, as if everything is taking its first deep breath after months of growing and blooming.
And indoors, I finally get to revisit the treasures of the season I worked so hard for. Pressed flowers tucked between heavy books all summer, bundles of dried blooms hanging upside down in the barn — now is the time to bring them out. There’s something grounding about spreading them across the table, seeing the colours that once swayed in the warm sun, and turning them into framed pieces, little bits of décor, or handmade gifts for Christmas. Slow craft feels like a companion to the season: unhurried, thoughtful, and full of memory.
Fall also brings that familiar sense of reflection. I’ve already caught myself paging through notes and photos, remembering what thrived, what struggled, what surprised me. It’s comforting, in a way — looking back at the season with honesty and gratitude, letting both the successes and the failures guide next year’s dreams. Even as the garden sleeps, the gardener in me is quietly planning.
So yes, the cold has settled in and the days are shorter. But this time of year has its own kind of beauty — a softer, slower rhythm that invites you to pause, breathe, and appreciate the work you’ve done. The garden may be resting, but the connection to nature continues, gently carrying me into the season ahead.
