Microdosing Hope after a Summer of Sadness

This summer was hard. I’ve struggled with whether or not to share about it, as I try to stay pretty positive in my public facing self. But life is sometimes hard, and I trust you understand this. You’ve likely experienced it as well. So here we go..

In July, our sparkling delight of a little old lady cat passed away. We don’t have kids, and she was our only pet. I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that she was the cheerful light at the center of our home and wee family. She was 19, and had been living with kidney disease for the past 4 years, so we know we’re lucky to have had her with us and relatively healthy for as long as we did. But the absence of her has left a hole. In our home, in our daily routines, and in my heart. Because of Covid lockdowns, and being self-employed, we’ve spent almost every day over the past 5 years with her. Morning coffee snuggle time, post-lunch snuggle time, evening movie snuggle time. She was chatty, loved stretching out in a sunny spot, and equally loved the time of year when we always have a fire in the woodstove. And now she is greatly missed.

Around the same time, it stopped raining. We didn’t have more than 1mm of rain in about 6 weeks, and temperatures were often 35-40 degrees during that time. I was too sad and too hot to spend 2 hours watering the garden, so most of it died as well. What didn’t die produced very few fruits per plant, and much smaller than past years. We had less than 1 zucchini per plant, which is unheard of. Cucumber vines only got to be about 12” high at best, and only produced one or two skinny cucumbers. You get the picture.

But at least the zinnias flourished.. they were a rainbow of colour in a mostly brown landscape, and gave so much joy. Until we had a shockingly early first frost mid-September, which killed them all overnight. Tomatoes - gone. The scraggly bean and pea vines - fried.

So where is the light at the end of this tunnel of sadness and death? To be honest, I’m not sure. I’m somewhat relieved at the lack of preservation activities compared to past autumns, where I was physically exhausted day after day from picking, cleaning, blanching, canning, etc. I’m grateful that we live in a time of grocery stores, where I don’t actually have to rely on the contents of my garden for my survival. And unlike most Octobers, I won’t be watching the weather forecast obsessively to know what part of the garden needs to be protected, because there’s nothing left to protect.

And the freedom. Having not left the province - never mind the country! - since the fall of 2019, we are slowly starting to consider adventures out in the world again. We stuck close to home to take care of wee Mischa as best we could, and give her the best life possible for as long as it lasted. I have no regrets about that. But now that’s she’s gone, I need to fill that empty spot with something joyful and inspiring.

In the meantime, I’m working on finding the beauty within the grief of the frost-killed zinnias, many of whom died before fully blossoming. I spent an afternoon photographing them, and will now see where those images lead me.

Luckily, this weekend is the Madawaska Valley Studio Tour, and even more luckily, the work I created back in the spring was deliberately made to repel the heaviness and gloom of the world. I get to spend two days standing in a 10x10’ space full of beautifully blooming flowers and joyful colours, in spite of the state of my garden. I call this my “Microdosing Hope” series, and it’s very simple, straightforward, and joyful.

Who couldn’t use a bit of that?