Between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice, the food forest undergoes fantastic modifications.

When the first rains of the season begin, we oxygenate the beds with a tooth shovel (without turning the soil), we pull some weeds (by the root), and we fertilize with a little ash, chicken manure, and compost if necessary.

We check the infiltration ditches. Some of the decomposed material during the year in these is also added to the beds. We level it with a rake and get ready to plant. Additionally, during this time, we transplant fruit and leguminous trees, create or reinforce windbreaks, and integrate aromatic and medicinal plants here and there.

We intervene considering the design guidelines, but also the intuitive.

Nevertheless, this is the least important; the magic happens naturally.

The days are shorter and cooler. The morning fog hydrates the plants that offer their best essences. Mints, rose mallows, and rosemaries; rue, lavenders, and sages. Alchemy. Plant transmutation. Soul medicine.

On a bed, next to some lettuce and young carrots, I see a small thorny bush that I do not recognize. I think about pulling it out but hesitate, and in hesitating, I do nothing. In that moment, I remember Fukuoka and the endearing school up in the hills, painted with carob trees. I continue.

The deciduous trees begin to shed their leaves, and their foliage mulches the ground; a multicolored carpet, a feast for the eyes and bare feet, also for the nose.

Several cherry tomato plants, naturally germinated late, survive without developing beneath a thicket. If any manage to survive the frosts in winter, perhaps they will explode in spring with an unusual vigor. Adaptation evolves slowly but inexorably.

While some species stop, others awaken. Comfrey, retracted in the drier months, grows and spreads, gaining space, deepening roots to extract nutrients and deliver them to the outer part of the system.

The fruits of the citrus begin to ripen, and the birds feed on them. The ones on top are for them; the ones below, if any are left, are for us. I plant and care for the universe, for my mother the earth; if there's any left, I take it and give thanks. And there is always surplus, because that is how love is.

When it rains torrentially, I go to see what happens; Elda used to do it, and she passed it on to me. Water flows through the field from the highest areas and drains into diversion and infiltration ditches. It flows from one to another, descending the slope, carrying nutrients, life in motion. I correct some diversion or level. I continue.

I ask for and consciously chew a leaf of kalanchoe. Consciously, I drink the water that soaks me.

In the pond, frogs croak beneath trunks, stones, and wildflowers that spread disorderly. Everywhere, chards, arugula, and parsley sprout. The chaos is perfect.

The oats from the previous year, lying down in the summer after completing their cycle, mulch the “empty” spaces. Beneath this, fennel and mustard germinate, as do borage and calendula, which along with the herbaceous legumes will create a diverse, multifunctional ground cover.

The synergy generated spontaneously gives us the keys to a more communal, sensitive, and subtly active society.

The skunks leave small inverted cone-shaped holes everywhere. In them, I drop a fava bean seed or a garlic clove; I cover them and move on.

And mushrooms, mushrooms everywhere, for eating, for transforming… mushrooms.

I observe; I admire the trees, imagining minimal pruning for July… if it's necessary.

There are avocado trees of various sizes resisting the cold, cradled by the native forest, each with its own scarf.

A stubborn zinnia keeps its slightly wilted flower; soon it will gift its seeds and be reborn in the spring.

I ask for a tangerine. I peel it without haste and eat it slowly. It's not ripe yet, but its smell reminds me of my childhood.

The protected basil and stevia extend their lives, even after the first frosts.

While the grass stops growing, clover, vetch, and lotus take over the spaces, sprouting and growing next to the trees, along the paths, climbing onto the beds.

The humidity accelerates decomposition; beneath the mulch, life explodes. Thousands of beings interacting, reproducing, restoring.

Designing and observing, I design myself; I prepare to be resilient. The forest tells me how, and I move forward without anxiety but confidently towards the transition, which seems as challenging as it is essential.

The drafts where I write these reflections, I give to the compost, and thus I close the cycle once again.

In autumn, things happen in a food forest, outside and inside (in zone 00). We heal and learn.

Thank you, teacher.

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