September 2025 Newsletter
Meet a Community Gardener…
When asked to share a few thoughts about The Neighborhood Garden Project, Dana’s first instinct was to highlight its beauty and the undeniable impact it has on the surrounding community. One of the most powerful aspects, in her view, is the way the garden provides free, nourishing food—not just to schools and churches, but to anyone in need.
But to Dana, there isn’t just one best thing. There are many. She deeply values the educational opportunities the garden offers to anyone curious about gardening—from learning about the soil to knowing what to plant and when. She also finds joy in watching the garden come alive with vibrant, thriving plants that visibly reflect the health of the space.
What resonates most with Dana, though, is something even more personal. It’s the sight of a bee dancing on a pink Zinnia. It’s the early morning songs of the birds. It’s the feeling of her hands running through rich, well-loved soil. It’s the immediate satisfaction of witnessing the fruit of her labor. It’s the joy of meeting neighbors and building a sense of belonging through the shared work of gardening. It’s the escape from concrete, brick, and iron, into a space where she can walk barefoot and feel the earth beneath her feet. It’s standing among towering flowers, immersed in creation.
For Dana, it’s a calm mind.
And she is deeply grateful.
Rhythms Written in the Sky
September often feels like a hinge between two worlds. By the time the calendar turns to the first, there is already a subtle but noticeable shift. The light softens, casting a deeper hue across the sky. Even the air carries a new rhythm. After months of heavy heat pressing from the south, a cool breeze from the north begins to whisper through the trees. Today, the sky tells the story well, richer and deeper blue, stretched wide with a clarity that summer rarely offers. The sun itself begins to rise slower, and with that, our mornings stretch a little longer, inviting us to match our pace to the season.
These seasonal cues invite us to slow down and pay attention. In the garden, the rhythms of the changing season guide us just as much as the calendar. Crops that thrived under the long blaze of summer are giving way, making room for fall plantings. Dew lingers on leaves, shadows reach across the soil, and we are reminded that the world around us is never static. The raised beds do not resist this shift. They lean into it, teaching us how to trust and adapt as creation unfolds in its proper time.
Historically, September was the farmer’s signal month. Before weather apps or printed calendars, people watched the sky and the wind. The first north breeze, even a weak cool front, meant it was time to prepare raised beds for fall. Heavier morning dew was a marker too, signaling that cooler nights were settling in. Insects also told the story. Cicadas began to quiet, while katydids and crickets grew louder, filling the evenings with sound. Birds shifted their patterns, some already preparing for migration. These cues were as reliable as any almanac, helping communities know when to harvest summer crops and when to tuck new seeds into the raised beds.
There is science beneath this shift as well. By early September, the tilt of the earth draws the Northern Hemisphere closer to the autumn equinox. The days shorten and the angle of the sun drops lower in the sky, producing that deeper blue light we notice overhead. Cooler winds arrive from the north as the jet stream dips southward, changing our weather patterns after months of Gulf-driven heat. Soil temperatures begin to lower just enough to favor root crops like carrots and radishes, which need that balance of warm days and cooler nights to germinate and thrive. Nature itself is orchestrating a careful handoff from one season to the next.
September is also the cue for us to start organizing our seeds for fall. By mid-month, we will be sowing the first raised beds of carrots and radishes, sturdy crops that welcome the shift toward shorter days. Preparing for this season is about timing and patience, laying seed into soil that has been refreshed by summer’s end and trusting it to bring forth what is needed. And then by October, we are well on our way with brassicas and leafy greens, crops that love the cooler weather and fill the garden with shades of green and promise.
There is a unique energy in this in-between space. The heat still lingers, yet the coolness ahead promises relief. It is a time for transition, for clearing out what has run its course and preparing for what is next. The sun’s slower rising, the crisp air, the shifting light, and the sound of wind through the trees all remind us that growth always comes in seasons. This is our favorite time of the year in the garden, a season of new beginnings, fresh growth, and hope rooted deep in the soil.
Hovering Between Beauty and Purpose
In the stillness of early morning light, a bumblebee hovers. Not in a hurry. Not in chaos. Suspended midair, just before the landing. In the frame, a slender stalk of porterweed, flowering in rhythm, never all at once but one bloom at a time. What seems like a passing moment is actually a profound exchange. It is a question. A pause. A search for what is ready.
At The Neighborhood Garden Project, we do not draw from nature as decoration or metaphor. We take our questions directly from its rhythms. Every flower, every pollinator, every season is asking us how we live, how we move, how we build, and how we care for one another. We are not applying meaning to the soil. We are uncovering it.
In one moment, the bee hovers in discernment. In another, it lands on a different kind of bloom, face-deep in the blue petals of a butterfly bush. The moment of pause has turned to participation. But it wasn’t random. The bee didn’t guess. It knew where to go.
There is more going on than meets the eye. Bumblebees are not just guided by sight or smell. They are reading the invisible. As they fly, they build up a positive electrical charge. Flowers, on the other hand, are naturally negatively charged. When a bee approaches, this difference in charge creates a magnetic-like pull. It is not simply attraction. It is a design that enables the transfer of life. Pollen leaps. Contact is made. Something invisible becomes fruitful.
But the story continues. Once a bee drinks from a flower, it leaves behind a change in the flower’s electrical field. Other bees sense this shift and know not to land. They do not waste energy on what has already been emptied. They move on toward what is still offering.
In that rhythm, we see how we are being invited to live. The bee does not strive. It listens. It waits. It responds to what is ready. It does not operate from urgency, but from alignment.
The porterweed teaches us something just as vital. It never offers everything at once. Its blooms come in sequence, small, daily, faithful. There is no need to impress. No need to open beyond what the day requires. It gives enough for those who are present and willing to come close.
Together, the bee and the bloom reveal how formation happens in the garden. Slowly. Precisely. Relationally. Pollination is not a transaction. It is timing, trust, and willingness. There is no forcing. Just mutual readiness.
We are learning to move this way too. To wait for the right landing. To build relationship before expecting outcomes. To stop wasting energy on places that are no longer nourishing. To offer only what is ready, not everything at once. We are learning that impact happens not through pressure, but through presence.
The garden is not a project. It is a living classroom. We are not here to lead it. We are here to be shaped by it. And when we slow down long enough to hover, to wait, to listen, and to land with intention, the invisible starts becoming visible. Not just in the soil, but in us.
Okra: A Story Rooted in Resilience
Okra, sometimes called “lady’s finger,” has a long and fascinating history. Believed to have originated in the African region near present-day Ethiopia and Sudan, it spread north into Egypt, east into India, and eventually across the world through trade routes. Later, it was carried to the Americas through the transatlantic slave trade and quickly became a staple in Southern cuisine. From gumbo in Louisiana to fried okra on family tables across the South, it carries with it a story of resilience, adaptation, and cultural exchange. Today, it continues to connect us back to the soil and to the traditions of those who cultivated it long before us.
In our Growing Zone, late summer is the season of abundance for okra. Its tall, hibiscus-like stalks thrive in the heat, producing pods daily if harvested regularly. Many gardeners know the rhythm—okra picked in the morning will often be ready again within a day or two. This continual harvest makes it one of the most rewarding crops during these hot months, a dependable reminder that the soil keeps giving when tended with care. While most people are familiar with green okra, we’ve been growing Carmine, a striking red variety. Red okras like Carmine share the same origin and flavor as their green cousins, though their pods sometimes appear milder in taste and turn green once cooked. Their color is a reminder of how diverse and adaptable this one plant species can be.
Okra is more than abundant—it is nourishing. The pods are rich in fiber, which supports digestion and helps stabilize blood sugar. They are also packed with vitamins A, C, and K, folate, and magnesium. Its mucilaginous texture, often noticed when cooked, has been valued traditionally for soothing the digestive system. Combined with its antioxidant properties, okra offers a simple but powerful boost to both heart and gut health.
And while fried okra remains a Southern classic, today it’s finding new life on the grill and roasted in the oven, where high heat brings out a smoky, nutty flavor with just a hint of crispness. It’s this adaptability that makes okra such a gift—it can hold its place in a hearty stew, shine as a side dish straight from the oven, or be tossed on the grill for a quick summer meal. However you enjoy it, now is the perfect time to let the garden’s abundance inspire creativity in the kitchen and share the season’s harvest with others.
One of the most delightful things about okra is how little it demands of the gardener while giving so much in return. Once established, the plants are remarkably drought-tolerant and thrive in the intense heat that makes other vegetables struggle. They remind us that not all crops wilt under pressure—some flourish precisely in the conditions that seem most difficult. It’s a lesson we can carry with us: resilience is often revealed in the hottest, hardest seasons.
Okra also has a way of sparking conversation in the garden. Some folks remember their grandmother’s skillet of fried okra, while others swap tips about roasting or pickling. With Carmine’s bright red pods catching the eye, curiosity always follows—“What kind of okra is that?” These small exchanges are reminders that food is not just fuel but a bridge between people, stories, and cultures.
So as we move through the height of summer, we give thanks for okra—a plant with deep roots in history, a steady presence in our gardens, and endless possibilities in the kitchen. May its abundance encourage us to keep harvesting, keep sharing, and keep discovering new ways to enjoy what the soil so generously provides.
