I am sitting on an old couch next to a window with a cup of Rwandan tea near. It is morning and from the kitchen I hear tunes from Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and Dave, a new friend, singing along. He is making blueberry pancakes at the suggestion of his lovely wife, Caren, to pair with their homemade maple syrup. It is the last day of my adventure of farm hopping and I am pleased to find myself in no rush to move on from this place, but instead have the leisure to wander to the garden in the country and pick blueberries one last time.
I'm glad for this time - glad for spaces to name questions, spaces to doubt, struggle, and learn. Yesterday, Dave and I were conversing about vocabulary. I wondered if it made a difference and after a while he concluded that what matters is gratitude: being thankful for where we are and the steps that have led us there despite what we may believe about how we got there or who may have guided us there. I think he might be right.
And so: I am grateful - grateful for the conversation that happened three years ago about community gardens and just living, for the Food Project, for dear friends, for books and documentaries, for suggestions, for a car, and roads to travel.
I am grateful to be seated on this couch next to the window with a cup of Rwandan tea and a friend in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes and singing along to Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band.