“Garlick maketh a man wynke, drynke, and stynke.”—Thomas Nashe

Greetings, Dear Ones!

Little by little the darkness deepens and the fall chores hasten to get themselves done in the slim, grey selvedges of Time. Emily Dickinson’s “certain slant of light” illuminates a variety of tasks, igniting temporary bits of tinder (ok, the infamous Dating App has RUINED that word for Prudence… we mean it in its most old-fashioned sense). Such match-bursts are destined to become cozy candles to light our way forward to Spring or accidental sudden bonfires I must put out. On the “bonfires” list is whatever is currently causing the cellar to flood each time it rains (I have already cleaned the gutter…), windows that whistle in the wind, and certain doors that are yet to open (or shut). Under the “cheerful candle” list, I finally got the garlic planted this week! Woo Hoo!

It is always nice to feel that the garlic futures are secure. There will be much “wynken, dryken, and stynken” among the resident descendents of Roman Gladiators here: We can either pack our wounds with it, brush our teeth with it, or use it, more mundanely, to flavor our daily bread. In any case, it’s a boon. It was delightful to have the help of my dear, current lodger, who had never planted garlic before. I showed him how to seat the little cloves in the rich black soil so that the points grew up and the roots grew down. His eyes glowed with the charm of churning the earth and tucking away secrets for our future selves to seek. I was happy to share the work as well as the joy. Fall planting is a pleasure that never dims for me. I love feeling my fingers in the dirt, numbly separating the tiny cloves, blessing each one, covering it in dirt and thick blankets of partially composted bedding and dung. From this frosty filth will one day come a pizza to remember.

So it is with the growth of my soul as it faces The Waiting.

I pause to exult in the number of worms I see wending their way through what once was anemic clay. Now it pulses with writhing capsules of blood and sinew. “Look!” I shriek excitedly, “Look at the worms! This soil is so rich! They are feasting on all that poop we’ve been spreading. How fabulous!!!”

“How is it they don’t eat what we plant, also?” he asks. I can’t answer. I don’t know how they tell the difference between what is living and what is dead, or why any worm in its right mind wouldn’t prefer garlic on the shit it eats. Given the choice between shit with garlic and shit without, I would definitely choose the shit with garlic. And yet, I’ve never met a worm with garlic breath. Garlic makes everything taste better… well, everything except pumpkin pie, I guess, which simply cannot be helped. There is some Miracle that tells worms what is food for them and what is meant to grow into food for us.

The garlic we plant is so small and dry. I can’t believe it is just “resting” and not dead. It has the papery skin of the Very Old. But like most of us right now, it is only “mostly dead” and, as we have learned from The Princess Bride, “mostly dead is also partly Alive.” Partly alive is all that matters, whether one is Garlic or a frazzled seamstress heading into Winter.

Of course, this is not exactly the garlic I had wanted to plant so my faith in it wavers a little. The garlic I wanted to plant is still in the wooden bin at the local Farm & Feed store across the river. I had just loaded a few plump bulbs into my basket when a Voice of Authority behind me announced, “You don’t want that garlic, Hon, that stuff is the organic stuff that’s $27.99 a pound. You want the cheap stuff in the little bags in the next bin. I think there’s some left.” She pointed to some dirty bags containing shriveled blisters lurking in the bottom of a small black bucket. I’ve seen bunions on the elderly that look more appealing.

I don’t know what made this clerk, clothed head-to-toe in mismatched flannel with tri-color hair and a nose ring, look me up and down and instantly assess without questions that I was not a garlic-at-27-dollars-a-pound kind of gal, but Dutifully, billowing with nameless shame as if I had been caught stealing the garlic, I silently put back the wonderful, fist-sized, purple-striped teardrops of Wealth and Promise that was not for me, and collected a few random small white scabs. How dare I aspire to the Good Garlic? What was I thinking? She nodded approvingly and motioned me towards the register where she rang up my bargains. Prudence almost loved her, except for the nose ring and tartan abuse.

In the car on the way home, as I cursed myself for being so weak, I could hear my mother’s voice from the back of my head announcing, “That clerk would never have treated you that way if you had been wearing lipstick. People who wear lipstick get treated like they can afford anything.”

“Mother!” I answer with teenage exasperation, “it’s not like anyone wears lipstick these days! Especially with masks!”

“Yes,” says Prudence (who despises vanity in general and lipstick in particular), “but at least go in there in proper street shoes, not mucks. People who shop with poop on their feet are bound to be treated as cheap.”

“Maybe she just saw you as one of her,” said my inner angel,

“What, like someone who’s saving the grocery budget for a new tattoo?” interrupted Prudence.

“No,” said the better angel of my nature, ignoring her. “She was clearly being loving and trying to help you. You will take such good care of your garlic, it won’t matter one bit what you plant. Chin up, Dear, All shall be well. It always is.”

“Does this mean we can get a nose ring?” asked my inner teenager. (We all ignored her.)

The garlic is now in its bed, covered with a thick counterpane of mulch made mostly of hay the sheep have discarded because one of their colleagues has spit it out, stepped on it, napped on it, pooped in it, or simply sniffed it and looked at it sideways. Sheep, like all fussy creatures, tend to waste a lot. A thick web of rejection rises from the floor of their pen that I peel off in rolls to tuck over the garden.

The work is done and I am satisfied. Mostly… part of me cannot help thinking about the other garlic. The Good Stuff. I am filled with guilty regret. I’ve got to let this go. But pain is here to teach us where we need to Mend. I decide to root around in the mind-muck again and figure out Why I am so plagued by this recent exchange. What made me hand my sovereignty away so quickly? Do I not understand my own needs/wants/desires/budget? What makes a shop girl think she can decide what’s best for me? What makes me think homegrown organic garlic could be seen as the height of extravagance? (Well, it IS, isn’t it?) Am I having “first-world-white-woman” problems or do I need to make my way to some bad coffee and a support group in a dimly-lit church basement somewhere? With all the pesky voices in my head, why didn’t I listen to the one begging me to “just go ahead and buy the damn garlic!” Who cares what a feed store cashier thinks?

How many of us do this? I am not alone, right? I know I’m not because my own customers act like all shop girls, including me, should be in charge. They do it all the time. They try to ask me how they should look, how their clothes should look and feel.

“You’re a professional,” insists one, as if I am going to follow him around and take his pulse for the rest of the week.

“No,” I reply firmly, “I am here to make sure YOU get what you want, not I.”

I am their servant. I am here to give them what they desire. (For the record, Servants do get paid. Paying, or being “professional” has nothing to do with it.)

Lately, I’ve had a string of younger men coming in to ask me about suits they have been buying from eBay or local thrift stores. I am excited to help them recycle clothing but some of them have no idea how to go about getting the look they desire. Mainly because they have no idea what look it is they desire. They buy these big 1980’s jackets and baggy bottoms with pleats and cuffs and think they want to turn them into modern little scraps that could be worn to cycle the Tour de France.

I think about my garlic as I try to guide them. “Somewhere between what you want and what you can afford is a delicate balance only you can decide. You need to take into account the basic integrity of the garment. I’ll tell you what the options are. The truth is almost anything can be done. It’s up to you to question what is feasible or reasonable before you send me to hack up this lovely museum piece. I’m not trying to tell you what to do…”

“I want you to tell me what to do,” says one young man, clearly irritated.

“I can’t. You need to decide for yourself. On pretty much everything… This is a good way to practice, so that someday, some well-meaning twit won’t scare you away from high-quality garlic.” He looks alarmed.

I try another tack.

“When I am out walking my oxen, I need a plan. Every step of the way, I need to decide where I am going so that I will know whether or not we get there. I’m the leader, so I decide. I can’t have them deciding these things. What a mess that would be! It’s the same with suits and garlic. Don’t let anyone, even if you are paying them, push you around. People can be like oxen, especially when they wear plaid. Love yourself enough to stand firm.”

I can tell he thinks I am going mad. I don’t mind. Being the boss of everything is not as great as it’s cracked up to be anyway, so I am happy to withdraw. It’s time to shrink down into the Silence where we can hear the better angels whisper. They know our hearts, our gifts, our paths--whom we should love and how we are meant to share the unearned blessings that are our birthrights. Seasons of light and dark regulate our little worlds, urging us both to “prepare” and create necessary spaces for rest and suspension of the relentless forward momentum of “doing” rather than “being.”

I have been feeling the darkness deeply this year—trying to embrace it, to see my annual lethargy and melancholy as the part of myself that needs to rest and go to seed. It is time to go inward, be a small “something-that-is-not-yet”—not a pumpkin or a flower, or a vine, or even a tiny garlic shoot— held by a rich, mysterious darkness. It’s time to listen better to those grace-filled inner voices—especially the quiet ones with garlic breath.

I love you all sew much! Thanks for your Good Work. May our Mending continue!

Yours aye,

Nancy