On Strawberries



On the second day of summer, we gorged ourselves on strawberries: filling our faces, filling our bowl, and digging among the leaves and runners in search of more. We ate strawberries until we thought that an explosion might actually be possible, and kept eating until the curious cats that circled us gave up hope for something tastier – a bird, perhaps –  and wandered away.

I tried to pay attention to this feeling: my world has been lean on celebration and ritual these last years – solstices and cross quarter days have passed without any significant marking of occasion. I am slowly learning how much I need this sense of occasion: it makes me more of a participant, less an observer.
Even though our festivity was a day late and deeply modest, I could feel the difference: a moment of being awake. Ankle-deep in overgrown grass and hunched over a raised bed we found these berries, sweet and nourishing and jewel-hued, made only from dirt and sunshine. How is such magic wrought from only dirt and sunshine? It is. Everywhere, it is – not just in this strawberry patch, but in my garden all around: in these asparagus plumes enveloped by bees, in the gentle shade of a maple canopy, in these roses that bloom until they collapse upon themselves and then bloom some more. These are all products of dirt and sunshine, all glorious growths that, in turn, feed us.
Here are some questions for you: what nourishes you, and where do you bring nourishment to the world? What a you crafting out of your figurative dirt and sunshine? Who gets to see your magnificent blooms, share your fruit?

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