In the fall garden, we relish what remains

I'VE BEEN trying to figure out why I love my garden most right now, when it's so not at its best. And finally I think I understand:

I find the garden's quiet decline comforting, the mellow colors of autumn soothing. Only this late in the season is it possible to see the garden without a scrim of ambition and hope between me and reality.

It's not that I didn't appreciate every single hellebore and daffodil that bloomed during the cold, wet spring. I swooned when the heat wave brought forth a burst of lilies. I've been thankful to harvest tomatoes and sweet peas since July. But it's now, during the garden's waning weeks, that I relax into its pleasures and see every flower, falling leaf and remaining pumpkin most clearly.

And it isn't just the clarity of the low-lying sun slanting across the horizon; it's the clarity in my head, where I've stopped anticipating, plotting and planning the ideal garden. Maybe this is the only time of year that most of us can get beyond our projections of gardens future and remembrances of gardens past. By this point in autumn, the garden is what it is.

As the weather cools and the days shorten so dramatically, we're no longer aspiring. It's not that fall dashes our dreams, but rather that it diminishes them enough so we can accept fall's decrepitude as beautiful in its own right. Nothing is more precious than picking one of the last roses of the season; nothing sweeter than popping a final raspberry into your mouth.

Perhaps we'd all be happier, more serene gardeners if we could keep an autumn sensibility year-round. Recently, an earnest guy asked my advice on how to loosen up and enjoy his garden. He told me he worried over imperfections to the point he vacuums up every fallen leaf. Every day. After I got over feeling sorry for his wife, I suggested he remember that gardens are part of nature. They're outdoors and subject to all of weather's vicissitudes. The inherent messiness of gardens is their mystery and magic. The fact that they change constantly is the humbling brilliance that keeps us gardening. To say he looked skeptical is putting it kindly.

Anyone want to join me in emulating the Slow Food movement with our own Slow Garden movement? Not that getting hyped up about gardening is all bad. If we didn't hanker after a bluer delphinium, a tastier tomato or the coolest new color of hellebore, we might not have the momentum to keep on turning the compost, pulling weeds and spreading mulch. Plant lust propels us through all the early spring work.

You'd think that at the peak of summer we'd pause to revel in all that's burgeoning up and blooming. But we're so busy seeding fresh lettuces and keeping everything watered, it's hard to find time to do anything but work and fret over lack of rain. And along with houseguests, summer breeds perfectionism. If the garden isn't faultless in June . . . July . . . August . . . then when? So we describe to visitors what was in bloom last week, or point out what will be at its peak next week.

Now the season's downward momentum is in full swing. I sat outside in a fleece jacket, drinking tea the other morning watching a goldfinch teeter on a spent stalk of sea oat grass for the longest time.

We may as well enjoy what's left for as long as we can.

Years ago, California artist Robert Irwin received an honorary doctorate from the San Francisco Art Institute. He walked up to the podium, made a joke, then walked away after saying simply, "All I want to say is that the wonder is still there." I hope autumn reveals all the wonder in your garden.

Valerie Easton is a Seattle freelance writer and author of "A Pattern Garden." Check out her blog at www.valeaston.com.