The School of the Seasons

Where the magic of the earth teaches lessons that last a lifetime.

This year, my garden has taken on a life of its own, far different from the intention with which I planted it.  Weeds have found their way into every corner, and the perfection I briefly sought has been replaced by a wild, untamed beauty. Last week, I finally surrendered to this new reality.

As I stood among the overgrown beds, I heard my father’s voice in my mind: “Sweetheart…what’s important is how much Wolfie is learning about the world in the safety of your yard, how much he can explore, how much magic and wonder he feels and sees.” My father was an amazing gardener so when he speaks, I listen.

Every morning, my grandson Wolfie bursts out the door, his eyes full of excitement as he races into the yard. He dashes straight for the tomato vines, plucking ripe apples and pears from the trees, and snacks on herbs from the pots as if they were candy. He’s claimed every last blackberry and blueberry for himself, savoring each one as if it were a treasure. He loves the fresh sweet corn I steam for him. His chickens delight him. It’s in these moments that I see the true magic of this space—a place where the world reveals its wonders, one discovery at a time.

The other day, we picked pears together and decided to turn them into pear butter. Wolfie has a special stool in my kitchen, just his size, where he can help me with our little projects. I couldn’t help but laugh when he enthusiastically dumped an entire bottle of cinnamon into the Instant Pot, along with cardamom , maple syrup and brown sugar. With a big grin, I handed him a spoon to stir it all together, and he immediately stuck it in his mouth to taste our brew. Moments like these remind me of the joy of creating something together, no matter how messy the process might be. I love teaching him about slow food, real food.

As the days grow shorter, I’ve noticed the first hints of autumn creeping into the garden. Soon, it will be time for the garden to slumber, but not before we harvest the potatoes and plant the kale and garlic. I love showing Wolfie how the light is changing, how it becomes softer, casting long shadows across the yard. We watch the birds begin to travel south for the winter, their journeys marking the change of seasons. I’ve begun teaching him about phenology, the science of observing the earth’s changes in real time, not book time. For me, what I am creating here for my grandson is a place where he can learn about the world in a beautiful, slow and organic way.

Watching him, I’m often reminded of my own childhood, roaming the wild orchards behind my house, eating small windfall apples,  fistfuls of blackberries and wild grapes. There was something so freeing about those moments, the sense of wonder and adventure that came with each bite. Our grapes here are ripening now, and I know that he’s going to love them just as much as I did—another sweet connection between past and present.

And then there are the memories of my Aunt Ida’s garden, where I would wander as a young girl, plucking fresh raspberries under the warm summer sun. Afterward, I’d sit in her cozy kitchen, the scent of her big pots of chicken soup filling the air, while she baked fresh raspberry kuchen. Those moments were full of warmth and comfort, just as Wolfie’s experiences in my garden are for him now.

He finds endless delight in smelling the old and fragrant roses, sometimes even tasting their petals, and spends hours playing with the chickens or helping me water the flowers. To him, the garden is a place of magic, where every leaf and petal holds the promise of something wonderful.

Soon, he’ll be old enough to listen for owls with me in the quiet of the night, just as I did with his father and my nephew. We’ll make caramel apples and hot , spiced buttered cider from our harvest.  It’s in these shared moments that I see not just a garden, but a bridge between generations, where the magic of my own childhood continues to bloom anew. My father was right—what matters is the wonder and exploration Wolfie finds in this space, a testament to the true essence of a garden's wild beauty.

This year, the garden may be more wild than usual, but seen through Wolfie’s eyes, it’s never been more beautiful to me.And as autumn approaches, the garden will rest, but the memories we’ve made here will continue to grow, just like the kale and garlic we’ll plant together, waiting for spring’s return.

As the garden settles into its autumn slumber, I realize that what we’re growing here is so much more than plants. We’re planting seeds of curiosity, wonder, and a deep connection to the rhythms of the earth. This School of the Seasons is where Wolfie will learn to see the magic in the everyday, to find joy in the simple act of watching a leaf turn gold or hearing the whisper of the wind through the trees.

And as we sit together by the fire, roasting marshmallows and listening for owls, I know that these moments—these magical, fleeting moments—will stay with him long after the garden’s blooms have faded. In this place, where past and present intertwine, we are not just tending a garden; we are nurturing a legacy of wonder, one season at a time.