Reflections on the End of a Growing Season

Sunflower harvest—view from the combine cab

One of the greatest lessons the farm teaches me, year after year, is that every season holds its own kind of beauty.

Spring arrives with anticipation, often messy, demanding, and fickle. The start to the growing season challenges us with weather that can be too cold, too wet, too warm at the wrong times, too dry, and late freezes that catch us off guard. Still, tender shoots push through the soil, reminding us that hope can be small and still powerful. Summer surges forward, a season of abundance and urgency, every task, every plant, every weed shouting for attention, every day long and full. And then comes fall,  and we strive to reach the finish line. As we gear up for harvest, our daily routines change as our world narrows to only that final goal. Weeds? We’re not so worried about them. Succession planting? Done. Even Irrigating is less intensive as temperatures cool.

By now, we’re worn from the work of it all. Tired hands. Tired backs. Tired feet. But like a distance runner, we draw on hidden reserves of energy for that final kick. Even the flowers seem to catch a second wind. Revived by cool nights, they often give us their very best show when the season is nearly spent. Their colors deepen, their blooms grow bolder, as if they know their time is short and want to leave us with one last breathtaking memory. Then, winter. The shortened days urge us to sleep a bit more, to rebuild our reserves and prime ourselves for what lies ahead.

There’s a poignancy in that, but also a kind of peace. As petals fade, seedpods swell, carrying both nourishment for wildlife and the promise of spring to come. The fields soften into muted tones, the farm grows quieter, and rest settles in—not as an ending, but as part of the cycle.

For farmers, seasons are a yearly chance for renewal, a chance to try again in a quest to perfect the art and science of our vocation. If we farmers are lucky, we might get to experience this dance of seasons for forty years or more over the course of our lifetimes, a span that seems both impossibly long and short at the same time. No growing season is ever the same. Each year is an opportunity to learn from the last, to stretch our experiences.

Living by the rhythm of seasons has shaped the way I see life itself. We all delight in beginnings and the glory of full bloom, but there is equal beauty in the turning: in the seed falling, in the soil resting, in the long pause before another beginning. Decline is not only about loss. It is about transition, the hinge on which renewal swings.

And though winter may look still from the outside, life never disappears. Our ideas germinate. Dreams take shape around the kitchen table. We plan, we imagine, we fantasize and fabricate—sowing hope before the ground is ready to receive it.

Each season, in its own way, is complete. Together, they weave the story of growth, rest, and return. And I count myself lucky to walk in step with that story, gathering its lessons in my arms like flowers—brief, beautiful, and always enough.

One of the greatest lessons the farm teaches me, year after year, is that every season holds its own kind of beauty.

Spring arrives with anticipation—messy, demanding, fickle. Too wet, too cold, too hot at the wrong time, too dry, and sometimes with a late freeze that catches us off guard. Still, tender shoots push through the soil, reminding us that hope can be fragile and still powerful.

Summer surges forward, a season of abundance and urgency. Flowers burst into bloom. Produce swells and ripens. Growth is all around us. Every task, every plant, every weed shouting for attention, every day long and full.

Then comes fall, eyeing the finish line like a distance runner. By now we’re worn from the work of it all. Tired hands. Tired backs. Tired feet. We draw on hidden reserves of energy for our own final kick. Even the flowers seem to catch a second wind. Revived by cool nights, they often give us their very best show when the season is nearly spent. Their colors deepen, their blooms grow bolder, as if they know their time is short and want to leave us with one last breathtaking memory.

And finally, winter. The shortened days urge us to rest, to rebuild, to prime ourselves for what lies ahead.

There’s poignancy in this, but also peace. As petals fade, seedpods swell, carrying both nourishment and the promise of new growth. The fields soften into muted tones, the farm grows quieter, and rest settles in, not as an ending, but as part of the cycle.

For farmers, each season is a chance for renewal, an invitation to begin again. If we are fortunate, we get to join this dance for forty years or more—a span that somehow feels both impossibly long and achingly short. No growing season is ever the same. Each year brings its own lessons, its own chance to stretch and grow.

Living by the rhythm of the seasons has shaped the way I see life itself. We all delight in beginnings and the glory of full bloom, but there is equal beauty in the turning: in the seed yielding, in the soil resting, in the sweet pause before another beginning. Decline is not only about loss. It’s about transition, the hinge on which renewal swings.

And though winter may look still from the outside, life never disappears. Ideas germinate. Dreams take shape around the kitchen table. We plan, we imagine, we fantasize and fabricate, sowing hope ahead of spring.

Each season, in its own way, is complete. Together, they weave the story of growth, abundance, rest, and renewal. And I count myself lucky to walk in step with that story, gathering its lessons in my arms like flowers—brief, beautiful, and always enough.