Colors of California

Fall Transitions

As the sun begins to shift, casting longer shadows over my garden and scorching the seedpods still clinging to the drying stems of some of my summer flowers, I also feel a shift within myself. This time of year has always felt like a time for both new growth and for lingering moments of introspection. At the height of summer, poppies and Ranunculus teased the bees and butterflies with their showiness. But, as fall begins to creep into the edges of my perspective, I notice the shift towards heavier-stemmed plants and, also, a sense of preparation, both in the flowers and in myself, for the upcoming shorter days.

Summer flowers are flashy, exploding with color, dancing over delicate leaves. The lacy “Love in a Mist” hovers, like a cloud of purple, at knee-height for most of the season. But now, most of the life force has been drawn back into brittle shells, cradling next year’s seeds. I find these striped wombs of creation to be almost as beautiful as the flowers themselves.

The pink milkweed was lovely this summer too, tiny pink firecrackers exploding from pale green stems. The monarch butterflies were drawn to it all season. Milkweed is one of the only plants which Monarchs, who are endangered now because of all of the pesticide use, can lay their eggs on. It is the perfect food source for the newly-hatched caterpillars.

Many native species of milkweed exist. I only this year learned that the showy yellow and orange Mexican milkweed (Asclepias Curassavica), which is the one most commonly grown, needs to be cut back to the ground in December and February because it does not naturally die back to the earth, as other types do. When left to overwinter, it can harbor microscopic protozoans which can sicken the caterpillars, who eat them in the spring.

Daisies, also, danced across the garden until just a few weeks ago. Planted by a handful of seeds thrown to the moist earth several years ago, they have figured out exactly which spot of garden they most prefer. It doesn’t really matter to them, or to me, that they were originally supposed to grow in the “decorative” part of the garden, but that they (maybe somewhat like an opinionated teenager) have decided that their place is right in the middle of a section of groundcover.

The Fireworks Gomphrena reached for the sun beside purple scabia, hollyhocks, foxglove and Calla Lilies in my very bright front yard.

Our little espaliered apple tree produced more fruit this year than it has in its five-year lifespan. It’s too bad that the racoons were the recipients of the bounty. But I suppose the raccoons deserve the apples as much as I do. They are highly intelligent little problem solvers. I have a vision of them having a party one night, feasting on apples and birdseed (which they also steal, despite all of my, apparently, not-so-brilliant plans to thwart them).

We watched the irises’ papery petals catch the glow of many a sunset this summer too. Their fuzzy yellow tongues seemed to lap up the warmth of the rays. And they flared their purple skirts on the breeze.

This time of year, dense fog blankets the hillsides many mornings, but burns off to hot and humid afternoons. The Dahlias are still thriving. The bees still flock to the fussy Borage.

The Lilies of the Nile are done. I have harvested their seeds and sprinkled them on top of the hill, in the dappled shade, where I do not know if they will thrive, but I have high hopes.

The hydrangeas, or “Grandmother Flowers,” as my Louisiana husband calls them, are fading back to green, as they do this time of year.

Fall is upon us. The nights are shorter. The days linger in soft warmth, and fade, more quickly, to periwinkle sunsets. The parrots, who cannot fly in a straight line, meander in chattering cliques, squawking about their day, passing over our house a bit earlier as they fly into the pinkening western sky.

This time of year, like the Love in a Mist seedpods incubating next year’s flowers, seems to be a time of creation. It is not a time to rush, but rather a time to slow down and smell the roses, to inhale the musty moss, to breathe in the foggy, misty mornings…a time to gather moments of introspection and reflection.

I hope you take the time to enjoy it!

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

I hope that you enjoyed this glimpse into a fall moment in a “sort-of-wild”, Southern California garden.

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Story and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.