Quiet Giving in the Garden
by Richard Daley
There’s a hush that begins to settle over the garden in late summer, a quieting of the world’s urgency, beckoning fall to settle in. We have gathered the fruit, pulled the last sun-warmed carrots, watched the goldenrod bow to the bees. Yet even now, when the story seems to be approaching a pause, there are gifts exchanged in silence between people and place.
Autumn gently reminds us that giving need not be loud, that some of the most generous acts in the garden require no tools, no chores, no plans, only attention and restraint—a willingness to let things be.
The simple act of leaving the leaves, so often dismissed as the lazy gardener’s choice, is really a recognition of belonging. These leaves are not debris to be stuffed into bags and discarded; they are winter’s blanket, laid down to shelter insects, moth cocoons, beetles, pupae, and countless other living beings. Their destiny is to feed the soil food web and nourish the very trees that dropped them—an offering invested in their own future. To rake them all away is to interrupt a quiet promise between the soil and those who live within and close to it.
The stalks of sunflowers, goldenrod, and echinacea left standing through frost may make those obsessed with tidy aesthetics shake their heads, but to cavity-nesting bees and overwintering insects, they are essential habitat, nature’s finely tuned architecture. To the birds who cling and feast on their remaining seeds, they are a brimming pantry. What may appear spent or without utility to us is very much still alive—radiating purpose.
Children, too, can be part of this late-season reciprocity—what we sometimes call “tucking in the garden.” They can walk the beds slowly, noticing what’s still flowering and which insects linger. They might scatter seeds that welcome winter’s cold to germinate, and trust that the frost will know what to do. Take a few moments to build loose bundles of sticks for wrens, sparrows, and all the birds of winter. Listen for the geese above, and reflect on how every creature prepares in its own way.
These gestures, they are not grand, they are humble, and they matter. The more-than-human world thrives not just on action, but on pauses; knowing when to leave things alone. This is a lesson our gardens can offer us again and again.
The Shakers sang, “’Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free.” Perhaps one of the greatest freedoms is to see ourselves not above or apart from the land, but in relationship with it, as part of it. To recognize that giving and receiving are often the same act.
A gift can be a covering of leaves, or the flowers left standing long after showtime, or a patch of earth left wild around the edges. These small things say: I see you. We must remember that we are not the only ones preparing for winter.
And in return, the garden gives back quietly too. A last bloom for the late-season bees. The rustle of sparrows in the hedgerow. The scent of damp earth going to sleep. The quiet reassurance that life continues underground and in hidden corners, and at season’s edge, the garden is full of these simple exchanges. Even in its late season retreat, the garden whispers: nothing is ever truly gone, only waiting to return again.
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