Before we hurry toward another season, let’s see what these 8 months have grown in us.
There is something about late summer that quietly asks me to notice; a teasing breeze that hints at cool nights returning. The light changes. The evenings soften. My garden begins to reveal what all those months of tending have produced. I hope my life does, too.
I think back to early spring. The soil was still cool. The year was young. I had so many hopes for what 2026 could be! I chose goals and set intentions. I carried a word from last fall’s What’s Your Word Workshop—a word I hoped would guide me through the year. (My word was Waymaker and I was really inspired.)
What did I plant? Did you plant? You may not have even formally sat down to write goals, but I bet you had something on your heart. Was it better health? More peace? A stronger relationship? Courage? Creativity? Simplicity? Faith? Friendship? Rest?
And then, if you’re like me, life happened. There were sunny days when tending my little patch of earth felt almost effortless. And then there weren’t. It got hot. There were weeds—distractions, my same old habits: worry & criticism. Life happened, and with it came responsibilities I hadn’t planned for. And, oh goodness, there were storms. Some passed quickly. Others completely changed the landscape.
As I stand here in my garden, I contemplate, “What is my fall harvest?” Before I begin evaluating myself, I take one slow breath, look up at the sky, check in with my Creator. I feel my feet on the ground. Then I can look at the woman who has lived these past eight months with kindness. Much as I wanted it, I was never promised perfect weather. A storm does not mean the gardener failed.
Asking myself gently: How did I tend what mattered to me? Where did I keep showing up? What did I water with my time, attention, love, prayer, courage or consistency? What needed more care than I expected? What did I discover I could stop tending altogether? What did you?
And what about that word I chose? Instead of asking, Did I live my word perfectly? Perhaps I can ask: How has my word lived with me? I know it encouraged me, challenged me, and I even I forgot about it for a while. Its meaning has changed. That is part of the harvest, too.
Harvest is not only about what we accomplished. The most important harvest is what grew within us. More patience. Better boundaries. A softer heart. The courage to ask for help. The wisdom to let something go. The ability to speak more kindly to ourselves
One of the great lessons of a mature life is realizing that not every seed becomes the harvest we imagine. Some seeds never sprout. Some are damaged by weather. Some surprise me by growing in places I never intended. And some may still be quietly developing beneath the soil.
As fall approaches, let’s consider what we are gathering from year to year. Let it distill- there’s no hurry here. We have the whole of autumn to listen and learn. As you do, consider these:
What am I grateful for?
What am I proud of—not loudly, but tenderly?
What have the storms taught me?
What wisdom will I carry forward?
Before we hurry toward plans for 2027, remember that winter has a purpose. Winter is rest. It is time to digest, restore, reflect, and allow the lessons of one season to nourish the next.
This week’s invitation is simple: gather the goodness. Honor what did not grow. Give thanks for lessons recognized and not. Get ready to rest before you plant again. You do not have to bloom in every season. Sometimes the most sacred growth is happening quietly, beneath the surface.
All my love,
Beth
