By Sarah Nuñez
Preparing for the fall equinox feels far away as I gather my thoughts during a heavy summer rain in late July. We usually begin to brainstorm what to share in our newsletters a few months before, as this newsletter is a window into our work, hearts, and harvest, created by many members of our collective.
This morning I started the day walking into the gardens in the heavy rain to check on the water flow on the land. Ever since the 72 year old, 85 foot tall red oak fell in August of 2025, almost one year after Helene and now one year ago, I am ever present with the flow of water, where it puddles, where it flows, and careful that the rain barrels (which fill up in seconds during a heavy downpour) are emptying in just the right places..
July Rain notes remind me of what Dolly Parton says, “if you want rainbows you have to put up with the rain.” I also enjoyed the song Summer Rain, by Carl Thomas as I reflect on the seasons we've been through this year. Check it out on our playlist!
With all the rain this summer season, we were not able to save the rain for watering the gardens, so it ended up emptied back into the storm water system. While this practice is not ideal, it's the best we can do at this time as we wait to build a more hefty rain harvest system on the land this fall to include a cistern that will hold 1,500 gallons of water and keep the water on the land.
Most of the time, we are doing the best we can, and I want to remember that every day as I offer grace to myself and others who are all walking this path with us. Storms come, dumping a lot of water; then it collects, empties, and the cycle continues. Building out our organization’s systems, people, and structures gives the same vibes as well. We’re building and pouring into ourselves, our structures, our people, and our gardens each season with intention and sometimes all the feels!
Rainstorms remind me of how grief feels and settles in the body. A rush of feelings, falling quickly, splashing all over, moving fast, that has a way of flowing and moving exactly what it needs to move. Then I wait, knowing it will come again. Sometimes unexpectedly, as a flash memory while walking in a store, driving in my car, or sitting in the garden. I think of grief with rain and the trees and the storm. I know it is cyclical and will come and visit me again soon; then, once it empties or settles, I can go and splash in puddles and dance in the droplets, remembering that this too is temporary. |