Flax harvesting (1904) painting by Emile Claus (1849-1924)
Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Brussels, Belgium
Around here, once we turn the calendar page to August, the season changes as well. The days are cooler, it is getting dark noticeably earlier, the Canadian geese are already flying overhead.
Mind you, we still have sunny days. But it feels different. Like everything is winding down. Gathering in. There is a flurry in the kitchen, putting food up for the long winter. (There is nothing like opening a jar of vanilla peaches in the middle of February to take you back to July)!
And this year, I am gathering in the flax. It has been beautiful harvesting weather; cool but sunny. In fact this morning, I was wearing a hoodie. There was a slight breeze, which made the flax seed heads softly whisper in their rattling voices, "Pull me! Pull me!"
I was picking slow; as sort of a morning meditation; thankful for the sun, the coolness of the day, the beauty of the last tiny blue flowers rolling like waves on a sea of stalks.
The wind was playing with me. A sudden gust would bend the stalks this way as I reached and missed; then that way, reach and miss. I could hear a faint laugh; she's such a tease.
Then I grew frantic. I reached a part of the flax bed that is ready now, and from what I've read, it can't wait. The quality of the flax depends on the harvest. Waiting too long will make a coarser fiber. The voice in my head started saying, "Faster! Faster!" I started kamikaze picking, and developed a scoop method where I circled my had clockwise grabbing a handful of stalks from the left, pulling towards me, then up. There was a slight ripping sound as the earth gave up her hold. I clasped bundles in my other hand until I could hold no more.
The harvest is halfway done, but my back is beyond done. Still bent over, I make my way to the house, wondering if I will ever straighten out again.
Fleece,
Abu
Recent Comments