In this turning of the seasons, we are reminded that meaningful growth rarely happens all at once.

Summer’s fullness is still with us—the tomatoes hanging heavy, the squash sprawling wide—but autumn is quietly at the edges, reminding us that every garden is part of a larger rhythm.

Have you noticed how the garden’s whole character can change in these few short weeks? September teaches us that endings are also beginnings.

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At its heart, this principle invites us to move away from compartmentalization and toward cooperation, synergy, and thoughtful connection—values that are as vital in life as they are in the garden.

Mid-summer is a season of steady hands and watchful eyes—an opportunity to care deeply for what we’ve grown and prepare for what’s next.

The heavy lifting of summer may not yet be over, but nature begins to exhale. August in the Maritime Northwest brings a rare and beautiful phenomenon—our second spring.

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Every garden holds a story, written in the patterns of sunlight, rainfall, slope, and soil. These are the large brushstrokes of nature.

Our gardens are not separate from the forests, rivers, and migrations around us. They are microcosms of resilience, generosity, and design.

It may seem early to think of fall, but July is the moment to begin. Seeds for overwintering crops must go into the ground now to take root before the days shorten and the soil cools.

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Many of these plants have nourished people and wildlife for generations, and their gifts continue to teach us how to live in balance with the land.

Amid this peak season of abundance, it is the perfect moment to turn our attention to what is often discarded and overlooked: our waste.

Still, we go on planting, trellising, watering. We sow the seeds of future meals and memories. And we tend to our tomatoes with a hopeful heart.

We tend the present—watering, harvesting early greens, managing rapid growth—and simultaneously step into the future, sowing seeds that won’t mature until the days grow shorter again.

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This principle asks us to lean into the abundance surrounding us. It calls for reverence and restraint, for seeing resources not as things to be used up, but as partners in the dance of regeneration.

When a plant begins to pale or a bud fails to set, it may be speaking of something deeper: a need that only attentive care or testing can address.

Baskets brim with bright abundance, the archetype of gardening delight. Yet, in our Maritime Northwest, these symbols of the summer harvest carry a quiet challenge.