Around here, Saturdays in March are some kind of decadent treat. The sun wakes up early and burns just warm enough to make your skin thaw. The garden is buzzing with friends, all here to dig their fingers in the dirt and help tidy the homes of our tiny growing vegetables. I am up to my elbows in sink water, dunking collard greens and watching the water bead up and drip off. It is a blindingly beautiful thing, a home-grown vegetable.
Stella and her two little Japanese friends sit in the mud hunching over a bucket of water. "We making a potato soup!" the older girl informs me, stirring the water with a muddy hand shovel. Stella finds shriveled kumquats and white little pebbles to contribute. The boy watches them with a scowl and periodically reaches his squat little fingers out and tips the whole bucket over.
Dinnertime is spent in the backyard of new friends. Watching the sunset over a sleepy pond, listening to our babies grapple over a brownie, gushing over their vintage VW bus (my dream car).
It got me thinking, there are a hundred thousand million reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.