Patience at Summer's End: On Celebrating the Early Harvest

Rudbeckia

It’s always tempting this time of year to rush into that autumn feeling. Stores begin setting shelves with Halloween decorations, and for some of us, the summer heat starts to become tiresome. We daydream about cable knit sweaters and pumpkin flavors and brilliant leaf displays. We are eager for the calm groundedness that comes with the thinning of the veil, the “spooky season” that slows us down and lets us lean into the shadows we can so easily overlook in the bright maximalism of summer. For many of us, autumn is the most delightful time of year–but we are not quite there yet, and rushing out of the present moment never does anyone any favors.

Around this time of year, I tend to let my vision creep a little too far forward, but I am determined never to catch August in my rearview without having lived it fully. I find it helpful to focus on the unique gifts that this time of year brings. 

Mid-August in Minnesota means a slight shift in seasons. There are whispers of the end of summer and the beginning of autumn: the slight blush of pink spreading over sedum, gardens in full outbursts, wheatfields golden and cut short, waiting to be bundled. But we all know we still have one month of warm temperatures left.

In English, we only have words for four seasons–spring, summer, autumn, winter–so we only think of time and weather in these four phases. But the earth passes time in many micro seasons, marked by tiny shifts in temperatures, precipitation, and plant and animal life. Here in Minnesota, those of us who are chronically online have likely seen the meme of a long line of eleven micro-seasons of Minnesota, with an arrow denoting “we are here” changing each time it’s posted. While the meme is a joke, listing seasons like “fool’s spring,” “mud season,” “third winter,” and “false fall,” it is an accurate reflection of the various, predictable shifts in Minnesota’s seasons. 

The 11 seasons of Minnesota

I particularly like marking time in smaller units than four main seasons. The twelve calendar months can certainly be helpful units, as can the thirteen moon phases each year. 

Mid August by the meme’s dictation is the time where we creep from summer to “false fall,” followed by  the “second summer” of September (traditionally known as “Indian Summer”). We are leaving what is colloquially known as the “dog days” of summer, which is essentially the month of July, the hottest, most intense part of summer. I, for one, am grateful, as I do not particularly enjoy these dog days unless I am lying by a pool or a lake. 

In Celtic pagan practices, August 1, or the halfway point between the summer solstice and autumnal equinox, marks the holiday of Lughnasadh (sometimes known as Lammas), a celebration of harvest. While there is some disagreement on the legitimacy of these holidays in ancient paganism, they are practiced among many people today, and I like the agricultural significance these holidays uplift. 

Anyone who has a garden knows that August marks the thick of harvest time. Tomatoes are ripe, zucchini is abundant, ears of corn are marked with brown silk. It is the time most garden produce is at its peak, the time when harvest is frequent and food preservation is often, for those that know how. 

Besides venerating the Celtic god Lugh, Lughnasadh celebrates the first fruits and grains, giving thanks for the abundance of the earth. Whether or not you have a garden or are a practiced farmer, I think it is important to keep in touch with the agricultural seasons, and while commercial fall decor typically focuses on harvest, I like the sentiment that harvest season begins in late July and early August, when our gardens begin to proliferate. We have a chance in August to connect to the abundance of the earth, witnessing the outcome of our patience as we have waited for our spring seeds to flourish. To recognize that the earth sustains us and to give back to the earth by saving seeds from our harvests. To give back to our communities by sharing our harvest, either directly or indirectly. Just the other day I made muffins from my abundance of zucchini and left a batch with my friends, and they will be sick of me serving zucchini-based goods the same way I was sick of the endless ways my own mother found to serve this plentiful plant. But that is what happens when nature gifts you freely; you reciprocate, as Robin Wall Kimmerer puts it in her book The Serviceberry. “Receiving a gift from the land is coupled to attached responsibilities of sharing, respect, reciprocity, and gratitude.”

August is zucchini season

Another way to anchor ourselves in the current season is by looking at the moon cycle. August’s full moon happened on the 9th, and this moon is traditionally named the Sturgeon Moon to denote the time of year when sturgeon are most abundant and easiest to catch in the Great Lakes. For those like myself who are fish-illiterate people, if you google sturgeon, you will find photos of massive, bony fishes that require three people to carry them.

According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, “this native freshwater fish was readily caught during this part of summer and an important food staple for Native Americans who lived in the region. At one time, the lake sturgeon was quite abundant in late summer, though they are rarer today.” Of course, they are rarer because of human hubris and lack of regard for the ways of nature–pollution, overfishing, and habitat damage has severely limited their populations. The result of humans not reciprocating, not recognizing the value of a gift. “In the Indigenous worldview,” Wall Kimmerer writes in her masterpiece Braiding Sweetgrass, “a healthy landscape is understood to be whole and generous enough to be able to sustain its partners.” What if the Sturgeon Moon acted as a reminder for us to practice reciprocity, to care for the earth that gifts us so freely? A reminder that, treated without reciprocity, we impose imbalance on the natural world?

There are small ways to begin practicing this reciprocity. August is rife with county fairs, a time for land-carers to show off enormous, gorgeous vegetables and fruits, with some competing for first prize over their preserves and baked goods made from the copious offerings of their gardens. As someone who lives in the city, I am often in awe of these sections of the fairgrounds, and I enjoy looking at the grotesque squashes and pristine radishes. Growing up in a more rural area, I’d always see the names of neighbors next to these offerings, giving me a peek into people’s unique relationships with the land.

August’s natural abundance can be seen reflected in the stars. Leo season runs strong until August 22nd, with fiery, creative, radiant energy, mirroring the splendid displays of the earth, a surge of steady generosity. Then we’ll move into Virgo season, organizing after the unruly chaos of summer and preparing for the change in weather. I like to utilize this time reinvigorating my home space after so much time spent outdoors the past few months. 

Autumn is right around the corner, but I am choosing to bask in the last golden rays of summer by connecting with the vibrant beginnings of harvest season and practicing gratitude through reciprocity. It saddens me a bit to think that most of us in the modern age are out of touch with agricultural and earth cycles. Celebrating the first harvests used to be such a universal human experience; it was a way to give gratitude for the outcome of months of hard labor. With the modern food system, we don’t have to think much about where our food comes from, who is harvesting it, even what grows in season and in different micro climates. We largely can eat whatever we want whenever without much thought and certainly no effort. I think we miss out on the celebration, then, that comes with a meal, with a harvest. It is easy to slip by without thanks, without recognition of the labor that comes with feeding humanity. The dependence on the land, the relationship required to nourish each other. Today’s agricultural systems largely work in ways that don’t give back to the earth, but as consumers, we don’t have to directly feel the injustice of that lack of reciprocity.

When I pick peppers from my garden with my own two hands, I feel an overwhelming sense of awe that nature will run riot with a bit of care on my part. I feel grateful that I have chosen to infuse a portion of my space with life and that nature has met me there and overdelivered. My kitchen counters spill over with greens and reds, and as I pickle sweet banana peppers, I am eager to share with loved ones. I want them to taste this thing that grew in my backyard, fresh and vibrant and full of flavor. I may not be in a village celebrating the harvest over bonfires and merrymaking, but I will bake zucchini bread and bring it to the bonfire in my friends’ backyard. We will drink wine and laugh under the stars, and I will feel in my chest the swell that comes with acknowledging the abundance in my own life–not perfection, but all I could ever need. I will know that I can trust that I am taken care of, even where I am lacking, and still have more than I ever dreamed. I may not have to spend my summer stocking my cellar and offering sacrifices to gods, praying to make it through winter without starving, but I am investing in my relationships, my interests, my soul, trusting these things to get me through the winters ahead of me. 

Autumn is approaching, but it’s not here yet. I’ll take the rest of summer grateful for each day, looking for ways to reciprocate.