Last night was rough, sleep-wise. My 62-year-old bladder got me out of bed twice, then I was rousted out of bed in the early morning to move my car. We’re having insulation blown into our house from the outside and they needed the driveway. Of course, nobody told me this the day before. If I’d known, I’d have moved the car the night before.
I became aware of an impending migraine once I got back into bed. I was exhausted and strung out from multiple awakenings. My regular morning alarm came and went. All I wanted to do was to stay in bed where it was safe and warm. I didn’t want to do anything. I had client work to do, but didn’t want to touch it. I was tired and angry due to the multiple disruptions to my sleep. My head was starting to hurt even more. Then the fucking doorbell rang. I knew who it was: the insulation people said they’d need to get into my basement and would ring my bell once they needed to do that. So, up and out of bed I went – cold, tired, headachey and very irritable. I threw a sweatshirt over my pajamas, stumbled downstairs and opened the basement door.
I needed something to get me out of the funk I was in. How about a start-the-day meditation over a cup of coffee or tea? That idea sounded appealing, so I went downstairs, scooped some tea into a tea pot and finished getting dressed while the kettle heated up. Then I poured the tea, portioned out some almonds and then cut up a ripe pear. I took out my cell phone, pulled up my meditation app and sat back to breathe and, eventually, relax. The wounds of the morning faded into the distance as I noted my breathing: in-out, in-out, in-out. I felt my body relax and my outlook improve. Yes, I could do a little work and do it well. I could also write about my morning (a great way for me to get things out of my system), browse some articles I heard about the day before and enjoy the day.
So, here I am. The migraine aspirin is just now starting to kick in. My chest has unclenched and I’m breathing comfortably. I’m giving myself permission to write and relax, read a little bit and start my day, even though half of it is already gone. I’m munching on almonds and a pear. I think I’ll be okay.
I picked up a ginger limeade at the farmers market this afternoon. Ka-pow! That was one hefty drink. They must have ground a whole ginger root into that cup. The first sip nearly took the top of my head off.
I’m not objecting, mind you. I love ginger beverages, particularly when they’re home-made. I’m nuts about ginger ice cream, too. I just wasn’t expecting it. I am quite refreshed, though.
Summer is in full bloom. The farmers markets are open and selling their goods as fast as they can get them out of the trucks.
This beautiful salad came mostly from my farm share, which we’ve been picking up for some time now. Basically, you get a basket full of whatever vegetable is ready to harvest. The last few weeks we’ve gotten a lot of beets, arugula, lettuce, zucchini, green beans and more. They throw in some eclectic stuff, too, like Daikon radish and kohlrabi. The corn’s in, too, although the tomatoes are very late this summer. I’m hoping the harvest comes in soon!
The farmers market also has luscious produce, in addition to a bunch of other items that have popped up in the last few years. We have local cheeses, smoked fish, beef, fish and chicken. There are flower vendors. There are also a few bakeries around for bread and pastries and even a wine maker. It’s a busy little place and I’m glad I can walk there from home.
It had to happen sooner or later: we just picked up our final csa farm share for the season. We now have turban squash, white cauliflower, Tuscan kale, a dozen eggs, carrots, beets, apples and red leaf lettuce. After this, no short drives to Wilson Farms in Lexington, no more tall white baskets spilling over with produce, no more sorting on the kitchen table and no more hunting down new recipes that call for unfamiliar ingredients.
Sob! My inner child is wailing, “I’m so saaaaad!” Back to supermarkets with their huge vegetable morgues. Back to wilting California or Florida produce. Goodbye, tomatoes. I will not eat those baseballs that dare to call themselves by that name.
I will console myself by slowly defrosting all the sauces and soups I made with my fresh bounty. I will bite and remember. Most of all, I will be very sad.
Farm shares are coming in, though. Salad days!