Adam, Sir Percy and a Bunch of Cauliflower

That's the title to my wonderful afternoon.

Because my wonderful husband read aloud to me from the wonderful book "The Scarlet Pimpernel" while I planted what I hope will be wonderful cauliflower (and thyme and kale, etc.). It was all rather wonderful.

And my back will be very, very, very sore tomorrow, 'cause digging up a plot of earth as doesn't want to be dug up is hard work. Sweat of your brow and all.

But it's done! Hurrah!

-Jess

p.s. I couldn't help but think, as I dug, of what it would be like to be doing this digging not for the food that will help out our grocery budget and taste very good added to our meals, but for the food that would be the basis of all of our meals for the next season. Suddenly digging and raking and soil-amending seemed much more serious, and the work real work. How odd is it to live as far away from our food production as we do?
It reminds me of my old teenage wonder: how much more seriously would we take the idea of the supernatural if we didn't live where streetlights drown out the stars? It's hard to stand where you can see the Milky Way and not feel very, very small. You look at the night sky and know you're not infinite, even if you always feel that way, surrounded as you always are by only your own thoughts. The stars let you know you're not all that, which I think opens up your heart to God, because it takes away some of your own delusions of godhood. At least, I remember it did for me as a teenager. It knocked me upside the head - in this really good way - when I got up to the mountains and looked up at the night sky. And how much do whole generations of city-dwelling folk miss that easy, natural reminder of their smallness? I know I missed it when I moved where I couldn't see the stars.

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for streetlights. But it makes me wonder.