I think about the harvest.
Whether or not a farmer is sad to see those greens, reds, browns and golds disappear from the dirt he or she’s tilled from start to finish.

I wonder if there’s sadness and hopefully thankfulness as it produced a good yield. Another year to grow. Back to this tired dirt and placing that worn down wood back into those worn down hands.

There must be some sort of spirituality to this practice of digging up dirt and planting new life. To plant — To grow — to harvest.
Somewhere, you’re putting food in someone’s belly and that has to be meaningful.

I’m not exactly sure where all these thoughts came from.
Maybe as I sit on my back steps and look at the baby greens stemming from our old wooden crates and pots, I imagine life and I think about its yield.

There’s the sun and water and those hands that placed their gentle and sacred roots into new soil. A metaphor of times past, present and future. Look around nature, we are all designed to mimic one another. 
Our roots, branches and leaves. A sacred swaying of Mother Earth and humanity - generally, Momma taking better care of us than we do of her. 

We get chances to put back in what we’ve taken out. Not nearly as genuine as a ripe tomato or a fragrant stem of thyme and bay leaf - but an opportunity to give thanks for such a meaningful exchange. 

The red stains my fingers as I indulge in these Oregon strawberries and raspberries - a burst of something so good and sweet it can only be from love. The gift of these tastes - I dare not ever find myself ungrateful for their season in our lives. 

Those seasons, we eat what’s good, when it’s good. And selfishly mourn when they hide their roots for the cold again. We’re thankful and sad as sweet grows into bittersweet. 
We’ll see you again next year, God willing. 

Plentiful harvest for the Beloved,
thankful for my daily bread,

and thankful,
for what Mother gave to us.