Today’s garden harvest fit in the palm of my hand: three plump burgundy raspberries and five cherry tomatoes ranging from orange to deep red. Eight items total.
I’ve set them beside me, though one tomato has rolled closer to the edge of my laptop. It’s the reddest one, and it seems to be asking, Eat me?
The thing about a bounty this small is that it almost demands savoring. Who knows when the next harvest will be — a week, maybe two? So it feels important to sit with it for a moment. To smile at the output and the effort. To relax and marinate in the tangible.
I keep replaying a comment from earlier. At the tail end of a session, a client asked how I work. Nervously, I answered too quickly, as if aiming for smoothness instead of allowing a wrinkled moment. Looking back, the question feels deeper than I first realized. Something more like, Do you see value in me?
I’m in my head today, and it’s a bit suffocating in there. Gripes and grievances chatter like old ladies in a hair salon. Without intervention, they just go and go and go, a mile a minute. And because they aren’t entirely wrong, I find myself sitting in the waiting room listening to them, reacting to them, almost wanting to join the conversation.
Only I don’t. Nothing productive happens in that loop. I just get whipped up in it, convincing myself something crossed a line that actually didn’t.
Outside, I’ve almost completely smoothed out the berm. The giant dump truck pile of soil the kids once treated like a mountain kingdom — climbing it, ruling it, riding imaginary dragons down its sides — is nearly gone. All that’s left is one raised mound slowly being integrated into the lower ground around it.
Because of the storms, the mushy mud, and the soggy grass around the newly raised area, I’ve started laying cardboard down. What it’ll do exactly, time will tell, but for now it feels like an act of faith in future stability. Or at the very least, a temporary truce with the mud.
I hope your day was excellent, and I appreciate you being here. Love, Jaclynn