Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.
Henry David Thoreau
Dear Reader,
The month of June blew in with blustery skies, near-freezing nights, and downpours. Like one would expect, some spring plantings thrived, and others simply paused their growth, waiting out the storms for sunny days and warmer soil. And then there were the completely unexpected turns that reminded me once again to always leave room for the unexpected.
Last year, about this time, I shared a story of a rye field. It was my first attempt at growing a cover crop, and I was thrilled with its success, particularly given our low-till, non-mechanized methods. Since then, there have been several cover crop rotations to include buckwheat, oats, and a crimson clover mix. But today, I return to the subject of Rye with a tale of patience and perseverance.
The normal weekly rainfall that farmers in the Northeast depend upon came to a screeching halt last August, just at the time fall/winter sowing begins. I watched the weather radar like a hawk, holding out over and over again on planting until a storm felt certain. And then, early one evening, the skies grew heavy and dark, and I knew I would deeply regret missing an opportunity. I grabbed my rain gear, slipped into my boots, and carted out the wagon heavy with seed. The wind grew in strength, and soon sheets of rain began to fall. I tightened my hood and continued until both intended fields were sown. As I finished the final stretch, the sun broke through the clouds. What would typically be a glorious sight made my heart sink as the promise of moisture barely wet the soil surface.
This pattern kept up for weeks on end. Our hot, dry summer met a slightly cooler but equally dry fall, and the rains never arrived. Daily, I passed the two fields on my walk, noting the seeds that lay on the ground never received what they needed to sprout. A sense of helplessness washed over me, knowing there was not a thing I could do to make a difference. November's first snowfall broke the pattern, and by then, a cover crop of rye was a distant dream.
Winter, on the other hand, delivered beyond its share of snow and ice, extending well into April, which was also unseasonably dry. Turning our trays of soil blocks for seeds soon took priority. The lit propagation racks began to fill in anticipation of a new growing season.
Unlike the fall, May came in with nearly daily showers. So much rain fell last month that I gave up on tracking as I emptied the rain gauage each morning. Fully focused on nighttime temperatures to determine what was safe to slip into the beds in the family garden, the failed fields of last season became a distant memory. There might be the first lesson of Rye. The next arrived when I stood knee deep in a lush field that looked suspiciously like rye. But I am hard to convince and the likelyhood that seed lay there for nine months seemed a stretch. Yet if it wasn't Rye what mystery grain so densly filled what weeks before had been a bare field?
Now walking morning and evening between rain showers I watched with nothing short of amazement. This tenacious plant matured before my very eyes presenting itself as a living testament to patience and timing.
This rye field has given me so much to think about at a time as I struggle with the metaphorical seeds that are still within my grasp. Awaiting all of the perfect conditions rather than trusting their wisdom to root when its time opportunities may pass me by. I'm curious what the story of these rye seeds have you considering. Drop me a note and let me know. In the mean time join me in making more room for wonder and to be amazed at the simple lessons life presents.
Until next week,
