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ā šTurn the Pagešā There’s a tiny red tomato hanging perilously over the edge of my deck right now. I wonder if it’s rethinking its purpose here, I mused this morning, chuckling out loud at the thought. My summer ādeck gardenā (all 2.5 plants) has been a freaking masterclass in resurrection. The basil that looked completely spent last month? It just needed a good drink and some shadeānow it’s flourishing again. Those flowers whose leaves curl inward like prayer hands when they’re thirsty? They’ve taught me that distress signals aren’t always death knells; sometimes they’re just requests for attention. But it’s the tomato plant that’s been my Mr. Miyagi. Yāknow… Grow on, Grow off. This scrappy little thing has “died” what feels like a thousand deaths this summerāwilted in the brutal heat, leaves brown and brittle, looking like it belonged in the compost bin. Yet here it is, still producing those perfect little gems: first green, then orange-ish then blushing a deep red, or starting to as my eager kiddo plucks them just before their peak ripenessā¦ Each one a small miracle of persistence. Plants understand something we are constantly forgetting: that life isn’t meant to be a constant state of thriving. They’re born into this sweet nuance, existing their entire lifespan in the space between growth and rest, abundance and dormancy. Dead on the outside, but alive underground in winter, resting deeply. Shedding in the fall, only to grow again in spring. Nature operates in cycles, not straight lines. Trees don’t apologize for losing their leaves. Perennials don’t feel shame about dying back to their roots. They trust the rhythm, the ebb and flowā the necessity of both the growing and the letting go.Why then, [FIRST NAME GOES HERE], can’t we humans live just a little bit more in the nuance? Why do we try so hard to be always in one cycle? Why do we panic at the first sign of withering, the first hint that we might need to pull back, rest, or start over? Maybe the real wisdom isn’t in avoiding the dying backāmaybe it’s in learning to trust that sometimes we need to curl our leaves, retreat to our roots, and wait for the right moment to unfurl again. After all, that little tomato didn’t get there by staying the same. It got there by dying a thousand small deaths and choosing, each time, to grow again anyway. So, here we are at the end of summer. School starts next week. I am feeling a bit like a dwelt horse. (Full transparencyāI had to describe this idea to google in order to get the term) As in, should be ready to goā¢ after this summer, to hit the ground running, to roar. And yet. Iām feeling like I need a slower start (and a long freaking NAP) this time around. I feel like I am finally learning this funny thing about myself (SURPRISE): If I donāt rest, exhale, decompress, celebrate what already isā¦ I will be stuck. No forward motion. No growth. So, I am moving into September, my ānew yearā (you can take a girl out of teaching butā¦) With A LOT more intention. Some serious work with managing my own time and commitments. Some DEEP, starting at the wall, sitting in silence, laying the grass, people watching… REST.So that I have the brain space to do all the things I know are coming. If you are a teacher and you know you want to build something new on the side this year, I challenge you to schedule in some starting at the wall time. Start with 5 minutes. Your roots are going to need that rest as you move through the seasons. What’s teaching you about cycles and renewal right now? I’d love to hear about your own gardensāliteral or metaphorical. The 4 x1
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