Harvest

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

—Galatians 6:9

Fall in Chicago is like theater: active, kinetic, rich. When Henry was a baby, Aaron and I took him for a walk in his wagon one day, and in the glow of late afternoon, we walked by a tree that had begun changing earlier than the rest. It felt like the very first moment of fall. A few days later, we went for a bike ride and got caught in a rainstorm, and the smell of dirt and the yellow of wildflowers against the gray sky were unmistakably fall.

Fall is harvest, when we’re getting all the good stuff that someone took the time to plant many months ago. That’s how it is when we make art. We struggle and push and plant seeds deep underground, and it doesn’t look like much for a while. But then someone comes along and listens to your song or sees your painting or reads your poem, and they feel alive again, like the world is fresh and bursting, just like harvest. Plant something today that will feed someone many months or many years from now. Plant something today, because you’ve feasted on someone else’s carefully planted seeds, seeds that bloomed into nourishment and kept you alive and wide-eyed.