The Garden of Accountability and Grace
We gather at the turning of the season—Lughnasadh, Lammas, the First Harvest marked the beginning of August. A festival of ripening, reaping, and reckoning. The days are still sunny. Boy howdy, the sun is still warming us! But the days are noticeably shortening. The fields are full, and the shadows are lengthening.
This is the beginning of the end of summer. And it's also a beginning of its own.
Lughnasadh invites us to pause. To honor what we have grown—what has grown in us. To ask: What did I sow? What am I harvesting from that? And perhaps more tenderly: What didn't grow? What seeds failed? What plantings began and then did not bear fruit? What needs to be composted?
We usually think of harvest as celebration time. But it's also accountability time.
Harvest and accountability say no to punishment, no to perfectionism, but yes to presence.
They say yes to what is.
Accountability asks us to face the truth—face the truth of our impact, not just our intent. We check the field. Not the seed packet, not the planting plan, but the actual soil, the actual field, the actual fruit. What came up? What didn't? What failed to thrive?
Fresh picked tomatos on a bed of lettuce. Pixabay CC0
A Story
I want to share a story.
Several years ago, I was part of a community organization I believed in deeply. I showed up with good intentions, with energy, with training, with ideas. I thought I was helping. My vision was so sure. I had a plan.
But over time, I began to hear feedback—gentle at first, and then more direct—that my way of showing up was taking up too much space, was hurting certain individuals, was not working with the culture of that particular group. That I wasn't listening as well as I thought I was. I was trying to push a river that did not want to be pushed.
And I got defensive. I wanted to explain myself. I mean, I was right. But accountability isn't about defending our intentions—it's about listening to our impact.
I remembered a bus driver I knew. He would enforce traffic laws with his bus. He was right... but that was really dangerous. Someone could end up dead.
So I paused. I stepped back. I asked myself: What am I harvesting here? And the answer wasn't growth for the organization, it wasn't increased accountability for the board, it wasn't even improved relationships. In fact, I was poisoning the fields with my vision and approach.
I knew I needed to leave. I grieved, I grieved hard. And I was embarrassed. And I was angry. I mean, remember? I was right.
And I grew. I don't know if the organization improved its processes or became more accountable to its membership, but I was no longer flinging myself against a wall.
Turns out, being right isn't enough. I needed to change.
This experience taught me what Rev. Angel Kyodo Williams means when she writes: "Without inner change, there can be no outer change. Without collective change, no change matters."
Accountability is the inner change. It's the willingness to look at the garden honestly. To name what thrived—and what didn't.
Bus on Road, Columbus OH. Photo by Chris F. CC0
Where Grace Shows Up
And here's the thing: Accountability all on its own can feel heavy. It can feel exhausting, it can feel accusatory. It can feel like standing in the field and only noticing the withered crops, wondering where you went wrong.
So that's where grace needs to show up.
Grace isn't an escape hatch. It isn't a get-out-of-jail-free card. It's not letting ourselves off the hook. Grace is what makes staying accountable possible.
Grace is being the soft animal that is our body. Grace is being human. Grace is the peace of knowing what is and still loving yourself. Grace is compost. It takes what's decaying and makes that holy.
bell hooks reminds us: "Forgiveness is an act of love for the self and for others, and it opens up possibilities for grace."
Grace doesn't erase our accountability. It makes the transformation possible. With grace, you can take the withered stalks, the unsprouted seeds, the insect-eaten fruits, and you can plow them back into the soil and renew the garden's resilience.
Grace says: You are still worthy. You are still growing. You can try again.
Holding Both
At first harvest, we hold both. In fact, here in Portugal, this time of first harvest is the time to plant for the next harvest. We get a do-over.
We grieve, and we celebrate. We mourn the crops that didn't make it. We tend to the ones that did. We name what we are proud of. We name what we regret.
We glean, we gather what's left at the margins—what might have been overlooked. We honor the imperfect abundance.
Remember that the garden is not just ours—it's shared. And so is the work of tending it. It's all of our garden.
Accountability and Grace in These Times
These questions of accountability and grace—they're not just for our personal gardens. They're for the public square too.
How do I stay accountable to myself, my loved ones, my neighbors—knowing that my neighbors include unhoused people, trans people, people of color, people whose very existence is under threat right now? Accountability here means checking my impact, not just my intent. It means asking: Am I showing up in ways that actually help, or am I just making myself feel better? Am I listening to the people most affected, or am I imposing my own vision of what help should look like?
And grace—how do I offer grace to folks who are lacking empathy or lacking comprehension of the harms being done in these times? Accountability is saying, "When you know better, you can do better." Grace is saying, "I will not condemn you for not knowing better." But grace doesn't mean being naive. It doesn't mean having no boundaries. I can believe someone is whole, holy, and worthy, and still choose not to talk with them. Grace can be protecting my energy for the work that matters. Grace can be saying "I see your humanity" without saying "and therefore I'll accept your harm."
How do we offer grace to ourselves so that we DO try again when we fail? Because we will fail. We'll say the wrong thing, miss the important thing, show up imperfectly. Grace says: You're still worthy. You're still growing. You can try again. And the world needs you to try again.
An Invitation
So I invite you to reflect: What have you learned this year about accountability? Where are you being invited to extend grace—to yourself, to someone else? What does your harvest look like, really? What are you called to do with it?
How are you being called to tend the shared garden of our communities, our democracy, our world?
Blessing
We grieve the promises we could not keep. We grieve the seeds that didn't rise, the grace we withheld from others, from ourselves. We grieve what we hoarded and what we lost.
And still, the barley is there, bending golden in the field. Still the sun warms us. Still the earth says: Try again.
May you be honest about what grew. May you be gentle with what didn't. May your hands stay open—to give, to grieve, to gather. And may your heart learn the alchemy of grace.
This Spiritual Feast series is ©2025 Amy Beltaine, all rights reserved. You may freely reprint any blog post, website, or print resource. Simply include the following attribution, and if you print online, make the link at the end live.
Article ©2025 Amy Beltaine, all rights reserved. Reprinted with permission. This article and hundreds of others, along with other free resources are available at www.AmyBeltaine.info
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