Ammi Midstokke: The solace of the seasons

The seasons are a solace for me this year: their inevitable departure and return, the familiar way in which they remind us of their unique necessity and purpose, how – regardless of our human mayhem – they will plod along as they please.

They feel like the metronome of our passing lives. A steady rhythm and unstopping beat that reminds us in times of change or upheaval, life in other forms carries on.

I think we could use some different perspectives right now, an act of preservation for our mental health. We cannot bury our heads in the sand, but we also need moments of reprieve. They can be found in searching for a wider perspective (look how infinitely minuscule we are in the cosmos), or in observing the small and seemingly benign (see how complex this fungi is).

This month, I turned down the news and absconded to my familiar retreat in a small mountain village in Greece (population: nine). The life here is simple and guided by the seasons, what can be harvested from neighbors’ gardens or the forest, or what is being prepared for the next meal.

I stay here in an old stone cottage, restored from memories of a friend’s childhood visits to his late aunt. The walls are thick and cold. The ceilings are vaulted, the tile roof held up with broad wooden beams. The doors are low and threaten concussion to the absent-minded visitor. A wood stove is used to bake and heat in the evenings. And the only noise in the early morning hours is the roosters crowing across the draw.

The autumn this year is long and warm, lingering like a houseguest who doesn’t get the point until you start turning off the lights. Trees hold onto their leaves. A few flowers blossom. Tomato plants remain heavy with their fertile burdens. Beneath the dried-out grape vines of the courtyard, their shade litters the ground with broad, golden leaves.

The afternoon sun still warms stone and skin. We’re braggarts in our T-shirts and bare feet, but nothing seems as brash about this seasonal exception as the quince trees.

Near the gate stand two quince trees, a gnarled and knobby pair shedding leaves and fruit alike. It is a large and heavy fruit, edible if one doesn’t mind their mouth puckering and their intestinal tract pausing for a day or two. They have cameos in history, art and myth (Hercules apparently stole this “golden apple,” while another started the Trojan War). As far as I can tell, they are an unruly pome fruit, the rebellious cousin of apples and pears.

In the afternoon quiet, the quince fall from the tree with a dense thud, hit the stone courtyard, and begin to roll in a wobbly fashion downward. They gain speed as if they are escaping the confines of the garden in pursuit of freedom, a roly-poly herd of awkward jail breakers hoping their numbers alone will guarantee success.

Alas, the sloped stones only lead them to the narrow village road where they are abandoned by the laws of physics and roll to a stop. They wait in the sun until a passing by car abruptly ends them by flattening them against the pavement. Here, they brown like cattle dung and wait for winter rains to wash them away.

Had the fruit waited to be picked, it may have extended its value, if only to be cooked into a quince cheese, a marmalade perhaps, or distilled into a digestif to contribute to the postmeal libations of the locals. Instead, they are spread like jam on the street, ignored by traffic and bees alike (they prefer the lat- season grapes), because their abundance simply overwhelms. There is only so much fruit boiling a village can do.

I grab a bucket and begin to collect the neglected things, these sour, grotesque pears and misshapen apples. I’m distracted by the cherry tomatoes and eat a handful. I find a zucchini growing beneath the freshly fallen leaves. The arugula is disappearing beneath tall grass. The basil has retired.

It smells at once pungent and metallic around me. My hands become sticky with decay and the strange bugs of soil creep upon them. I am not a fan, but they are the necessary ill of transformation, I suppose. I rake, pull weeds and sigh as I gather abundance and rot in handfuls, tossing them in the compost pile.

All of this will become fertile soil for what will grow in spring. It doesn’t feel quite like hope yet, but I choose to believe that growth is at least inevitable.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com.