The garden reminds me to be still. To feel.
It is there that my mind is cleared of the fog and chaos that builds up from too many hours spent staring at a screen. With my hands in the soil, my elbows brushing bean pods as I yank green weeds from around the pepper plants I learn to feel, so that I can think again.

The kitchen teaches me patience, and preserving food is a lesson in delayed gratification. And when my boys watch me milling about–sometimes with my hair tossed in a messy pony tail and still in my pajamas–pacing from the counter to the fridge to the garden to the trash can to the table and back to the counter working on countless food projects at once–they see something beyond the mess.

Each morning I wake groggily and find my way to the kitchen. I pour a steaming cup of coffee and head out to the garden. Slowly I make my way around mounds of soil and baby plants to see the growth that took place over night. They are always growing. New sprouts– where nothing was yesterday, today there is green life, new leaves, and finally–first fruits.