Another Produce Story

After work the other day, I walked to Pike Place Market. One of the highlights of my job, besides the people I work with and the people with whom I work (aka clients and co-workers, respectively), is that I can walk to work from home, to home from work, to Pike Place Market or the waterfront or Elliott Bay or Uwajimaya during my breaks. Lovely.

This day, I wasn't walking just for the joy of walking, though it is and was a joy. No, I needed to buy produce for my contribution to the family Thanksgiving feast, and I hoped to find some that would be local and sustainably grown so that I can one day meet Barbara Kingsolver and Wendell Berry and look them in the eye.

Happily, it being Wednesday, and not quite winter, a few local organic farmers had driven from their farms into the city so that I could ask them what kohlrabi was and how to cook it, how it was different than jicama and turnips, etc. (also, I suppose, so that I could buy the things of which we talked). We also chatted about CSAs, local restaurants buying from local farmers, and if I could volunteer at their farms in exchange for produce. As part of this last thread of conversation came the dreaded question: do you have any experience?

I have a strong interest in farming/gardening, but like my interests baking and backpacking, sewing and working in the non-profit world, I haven't had enough time or get-up to let experience come alongside fascination. Ridiculous as it is to believe that urban gardening can change the world for the better without ever having had an urban garden, I do believe and have not been. One thing about me particularly and people in general that has and will always be true is that we are all blessed with a titch of the ridiculous.

Ashamedly, I told the man I didn't have any experience to offer him. And a wondrous thing happened: he reacted with excitement, saying there's nothing better than watching someone experience for the first time the seed-to-plant miracle that is farming. My source of shame became something to be celebrated, my inexperience became a gift; I would not be a burden to be dealt with but would come with an offering, with new eyes that could remind the experienced ones how fantastic everything was before it became just familiar.

Is this something we can offer to each other more often? Can we learn to rejoice in things that the world has taught us to regret or to snub: hopefulness when cynicism proves how much we know about how the world works; the ability to be at peace with rest when being busy proves how useful and popular we are; generosity when resources are tight and best hoarded; a gray understanding when black and white are so much easier to live in?

Peace.