The redbud tree, a beautiful native species, is the first to offer its blush of pink blossoms in the early spring and it holds onto its large, heart-shaped leaves right up until the killing frost. On that very day, they fall slowly to the ground like great green tears. It is a sign that winter is upon us, like the wolf at the door.

There were not a great many garden posts this summer, so you'll have to take my word for it that it was a banner year. I harvested enough mint, chamomile, lemon verbena and anise hyssop to make many tins of my own "Garden Variety" tea. And we are fully stocked with frozen tomato sauce and zucchini. Remnants of its glory remain: the crisp dried globes of hydrangea, blackened peony leaves, a few wild grasses still standing tall. They bring to mind the concept of wabi-sabi, an aesthetic that derives from Buddhist teachings, centered on the acceptance of imperfection and impermanence. I learned about it years ago, from this book a friend gave me, and it resonated deeply right away. I have always loved the patina of age—on leather, on wood, on bronze, on human faces.
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