There is the familiar sound of gravel under tire as I pull into the road-side stand. A few steps under the burning July sun and then I am under the heavenly tent.
A table is piled high with green sheaths, slender, and still warm to touch, as if just dumped from the farmers truck. The sweet corn with its small white kernels lies within, waiting for blanching, butter, and salt.
Softball size peaches sit five to a basket. Their ripe smell radiating out, inviting the hand to hold and lightly squeeze.
The tomatoes are also stacked in fives in straw baskets. They are all different shapes, like individuals set free to be themselves.
And there is zucchini, summer squash, plumbs and blackberries. I touch the skin and flesh of each, grounding my self, and connecting with my own roots.
I imagine all this juice sucked up from the soil and now residing in the cell structures within these beautiful shapes. All this abundance, this transference of energy and life from field to flesh.
And then a moment of sadness, that summer’s harvest will not last, that this abundance comes in a wave and is gone. I want to slow it down and spread it out, to preserve and control it. I am afraid of the cold supermarket tomatoes on refrigerated trucks that will be invading soon.
What do we do with such waves of abundance? Build bigger barns for the future or just widen our hearts for the moment?
Barns are for dry stuff, not this summer juice. The heart must learn to beat with the seasons, filling in July and emptying in January. For now, we hold the cup of abundance lightly as we drink its joy.