By Beth Schreibman Gehring

This year, my autumn garden has taken on a life of its own, far from the orderly vision I had in mind. The weeds, once a nuisance, now intertwine with the wildflowers, creating an untamed beauty I hadn’t expected and even more food for the bees. Last week, as the air turned crisp and cool, I found myself surrendering to the garden’s natural rhythm, embracing its wildness as part of the season’s charm.

As I stood among the overgrown beds, my father’s voice echoed in my mind: “Sweetheart, what matters most is how much Wolfie is learning, how much magic and wonder he feels in your garden.” My father, who was a superb and passionate master gardener with a deep love for the natural world, knew that a garden’s true value lies in the life it nurtures. It’s not about perfection, but about connection—between generations, between ourselves and nature. This season, as the Autumn Equinox approached, I talked to Wolfie about balance—how light and dark, growth and rest—all have their place. We’ve been talking about phenology, the practice of observing the natural world’s cycles in real time, something I hope will help him develop a deep respect for the earth’s quiet changes.

Each morning, Wolfie, who is barely two, bounds out the door, full of energy, heading straight into the garden. His small hands pick up fallen apples and pears, and he nibbles on my herbs like they’re candy. He delights in the last blackberries, carefully selecting each one as if it were a treasure. He loves to dig for potatoes. Last week, we began taking walks through the yard and the nearby woods, gathering seed pods, rose hips, acorns, and colorful leaves. His excitement grew with each find, marveling at the different shapes and sizes, the brilliant reds and golds that signaled the season’s shift. It’s these simple moments—him noticing a tiny detail, a fallen leaf—that make me realize how important it is to pass on the quiet art of observation. I want him to know that every shift in the garden is part of a larger story the earth is telling us, and all we need to do is listen.

Recently, we harvested the last of the pears from the trees and decided to make pear butter together. Wolfie has his own stool in the kitchen where he loves to help. With great enthusiasm, he tipped a whole bottle of cinnamon into the pot, followed by cardamom, maple syrup, and brown sugar. As he stirred, the kitchen filled with the comforting scents of autumn, and I couldn’t help but smile as he dipped his spoon in for a taste. The process was delightfully messy, but isn’t that how the best memories are made? Just like in the garden, I’ve learned that it’s the journey, not the outcome, that truly matters.

 As the days grow shorter and the shadows longer, I see the first signs of fall creeping into the garden. The leaves are turning, the air has a bite to it, and we’re preparing to plant the winter garlic and kale. I love showing Wolfie how the light softens in autumn, casting everything in a golden glow. Together, we watch the birds begin their migration, their southward flight marking another shift in the season. I tell him about the Equinox, where day and night find perfect balance, just as the garden finds its rhythm between growth and dormancy. These are the moments I hope he remembers, where he learns not just the joy of playing outside but also how to recognize the subtle signs of nature—the changing light, the cooler air, the quieting of the earth before winter.

Watching Wolfie explore the autumn garden takes me back to my own childhood, to those carefree days spent wandering through the orchards behind our house. I remember eating apples straight from the ground and snacking on wild grapes, much like Wolfie does now as our own grapes ripen on the vines. In these moments, I see the continuity between past and present, a connection that ties generations together like a ribbon running through time.

I also think of my Aunt Ida’s garden, where I would pick raspberries under the warmth of the sun. Afterward, I’d sit in her cozy kitchen, watching her stir fragrant pots of chicken soup and raspberry jam. The love and warmth of those moments still fill me as I watch Wolfie, knowing he’s creating his own memories, just as I did. As we gather our harvest, I’m reminded that the garden’s true gifts are not only in the food we bring in but in the memories and traditions we nurture.

As autumn deepens, we’ll begin new traditions—caramel apples, spiced cider by the fire, and listening for owls in the stillness of the night, just as I did with his father. These shared moments, these simple rituals, are the heartbeat of our family, passed down from one generation to the next. My father was right—what matters most is the wonder Wolfie finds in this space, the memories he’s making among the flowers and trees.

Though the garden will soon rest for winter, the seeds of curiosity and joy we’ve planted will continue to grow. As we sit by the fire, roasting marshmallows and gazing at the stars, I know these moments—these fleeting, magical moments—will stay with Wolfie long after the last leaves have fallen. In tending to this garden, we’re not just growing plants; we’re nurturing a legacy of wonder and a deep connection to the rhythms of the earth, season after season. By teaching him to observe and appreciate the world’s subtle shifts, I’m passing down something far greater than a love for gardening—I’m giving him a way of seeing the world that will stay with him for a lifetime.

If you’re curious to explore the art of observing nature’s cycles, this website will guide you further into the practice of phenology: https://www.usanpn.org/about/phenology.

Warmly, with whispers of sage and cinnamon,

Beth

Photo Credits: All photos courtesy of the author.

Beth Schreibman Gehring is a lover of all things green, delicious, growing, beautiful, magical, and fragrant. She’s also a lifestyle blogger, storyteller, and occasional wedding and party planner who uses an ever-changing seasonal palette of love, life, and food to help her readers and clients fall madly in love with their lives! Beth lives and works with Jim, her husband of 40 years, and is owned by 17 full sets of vintage dishes, hundreds of books, two cats, one dog, a horse, a swarm of wild honeybees, a garden full of herbs, fruit, vegetables, and old rambling roses, too many bottles of vintage perfume and very soon, a flock of heirloom chickens! She is the author of Stirring the Senses: How to Fall Madly in Love with Your Life and Make Everyday a Day for Candles & Wine (available on Amazon) and is currently working on a new book, Roses for Beauty, Flavor, and Fragrance. Join her in her gardens at https://bethschreibmangehring.substack.com/, or contact her at beth.gehring@stirringthesenses.com.