Field Note: Pocket Harvest

This morning began with espresso in one hand and the dog waiting patiently by the door, slow tail wags.

I stepped outside to let Harris into the yard and found myself wandering through the vegetable garden. Coffee in hand, I moved slowly between the beds, checking leaves, lifting branches, and peering beneath vines.

A few ripe tomatoes slipped into my pockets.

Then a handful of strawberries.

A purple bell pepper.

The garden offered breakfast before I had even finished my coffee.

Not everything was perfect. A few tomatoes showed blossom-end rot and went into the compost bin. Several strawberries bore evidence of a midnight slug feast and followed them there. The losses felt ordinary this morning. Not failures. Just part of the exchange. They will compost and make a richer vegetable bed next year.

The garden never promised perfection.

It promised a beginning.

And participation.

Some fruits make it to the kitchen. Some return to the compost pile. Some are shared with insects, weather, and chance. Nothing is wasted. Everything becomes something else.

This is where I find peace. In the connectedness. I like to remember that we are all part of cycles. It keeps me from holding too tightly to expectations and judging results too stringently.

By the time Harris finished his morning pee patrol, my pockets were heavy with tomatoes, strawberries, and a bell pepper still cool from the evening.

It struck me that this is what abundance looks like.

Imperfection.

Me in my old terry cloth jacket and nightgown. Barefoot. Stepping unevenly over stones and roots.

No overflowing baskets.

No flawless harvests.

Just stepping outside for one thing and finding more than you expected waiting for you there.