After the cold snap drifts away and the mild winter vanishes in a blink of an eye small little wonders start to emerge from the earth. Some of those wonders appear from the well tended flower beds, some come from the perfectly toiled veggie beds, some spring up from the well trod paths, and some of them emerge from the deep caverns of our minds. Smells of oregano, basil and cilantro fill the air. All of this beckons the signs of spring and Easter weekend of 2015.
Almost all of those simple yet mysterious wonders give cause to stop and breathe in deep with a #sighofwonder ... plus they can all be found perched proudly on populated tables with baskets brimming of brightly colored fresh, most recently picked veggies, herbs or flowers from local farms. stopping to look into the eyes of a stranger.
A trip to the farmers market always proves to be a bittersweet adventure for my soul. Our little island is not so big and populated as a major metropolis so the booths don't line the city streets. There are just enough stands to make a wandering meandering circle and be done with in 20 minutes of skimming. In Portland, where I grew up the farmers market was a sight to behold. (Insert angle choir here with their hands lifted in the air) Anyone could spend the entire Saturday touring the booths of all the venders while eating some damn good yakisoba noodles and since the early 1990's the market has only grown and gotten more spectacular. I can remember street musicians playing small gigs on the street corners and the long hair grunge dancers swinging their arms in the air like they just didn't care! Corn rolls and dreds just a swaying in the human made breeze. That was a sweet time when Birkenstocks ruled the streets, the ethnic food was rampant, Mexican pullovers hoodies were all the rage yet completely scratchy on the skin, the homeless had guitar cases over flowing with dollars and our Levi jeans were cut off and rolled up above the knees.
Yet when I head to our own little hometown farmers market I can see that I have so many things in common with all the strangers faces yet we are so far away in relationship status. There clothing choices are a little more up-to-date but deep down there are a few that show up proudly sporting those sought after leather sandals. See in Portland it is so large you could get lost in the crowd and not have to pay any mind to what others were doing let alone what they were thinking. Besides most of them were swingin' their arms like they just didn't care ... lost in there own little worlds.
Now at home in our little town square there are a few people that know me, know more about me then they really should and pay attention to things I have done over the years more than they should. After all what else is there to do when you live in a peach-tree dish of germs. They have judged me for bad decision making or lifestyle changes but what are you going to do? (Wish they were swinging their hands in the air like they just don't care!) Retaliate by repeating the characteristics that you see in them? People tend to watch and mock the changes that others go through simply because they have very little excitement in their own lives or they have a set of moral standards that I nor anyone else will ever really live up to including themselves but hey, thats ok. At least they have boundaries. I guess. (shrug shoulders) In all reality that all means very little to me anymore. Really it always boils down to they don't have a clue so they make something up to satisfy their desire to know without searching for the real truth.
There was a time when these types of thoughts bothered me. The thoughts of small minded people are not my priority nor are the actions of who used to be friends. My priority lies in the soil that I tend the characteristics of my own self worth and the growing that happens eveytime I wash my hands of the mental trash. There is that famous quote that seems to circulate the social media channels at least once a week that I love to repost whenever possible. "Don't judge me until you have walk a mile in my shoes or felt the pain that I have felt." Well, something like that. That's how my brain remembers it anyway. Straight and to the point. The other good quote is: "Don't be hard on someone because you don't know the battles they are fighting." Once again that is my editorial version at its best.
How I miss going through the warm concrete city streets of Portland on a Saturday. (insert dreamy music here - something like George Winston "Summer") Getting lost in the crowds, minding my own business, being annonymus, seeing more simple wonders placed up on tables for sale. Most of the time ... remembering better happier days are on the agenda when I go to our local market. (Like to visit the past occasionally and thank the good lawrd above that I don't live there anymore) I do go to see what is new, see who is selling what and see if the hope that springs eternal in my heart for the noodles by the mile have become a reality!
One solid truth about me is this ... I am a slow girl. Growing up in a small town on the outskirts of Portland has taught me that a slower pace is not to be taken for granted but cherished. Moving at the pace of a snail is truly the best true prescription for white hairs.
I learn slow. Some mistakes in my life have turned out to be the best damn lessons that anyone could ever learn. Loves and losses number in the millions and some of the greatest people in my lifetime I hold dear simply because of the lessons that are still being taught from their actions or words. How many people can say that they are still learning lessons from their past friends, ex-lovers, husbands or mother-in-laws?
I have matured slow. Growing up has been a difficult task. People asked me if I have lived on this rock all my life and I look at them and proudly say that I was not born here but I grew up here. They are satisfied with that answer but never really dive into its meaning. Still waiting for the day when some brave soul asks the question: "What was it like growing up here?" That will open the flood gates. They better be sitting down and drinking a beer!
Most of all I like my food grown slow. Not to say those farmers are the market didn't slowly grow their produce, but its nice to see that there are kindred spirits out there that also like there food grown at a snails pace. There is still a couple of mysteries that boggle the mind. 1. One could head off to the local garden center and see what starts are ready for planting or one could run straight to the farmers market and buy it already grown or Better yet! COOKED! 2. Seeds that give up their energy packed shells to grow in a green house or in a plot of land just out side on the warm side of the house. Some like it hot! Some like it cold! Some like it in a pot 9 days old.
This weekend's trip to the market was a great success, proved to be productive with a dozen duck eggs under my arm and an emotional healing all at the same time. I did take a few minutes to walk down memory lane and the massive streets of the Portland Farmers Market as a teenager but getting out and getting my hands washed of the mental dirt of the local people was the biggest success to date. Forcing myself to stay longer then the 20 minute skimming alloted time was the crucial pivot point. Pushing myself to be seen and not heard another impossibility that was conquered. Yes, it is amazing that people can actually physically see me, no longer can I hide in this local crowd. No longer can I wander unnoticed at 10 in the morning when they first open. Makes me seriously think about those human characteristics that I show.
Will have to try the adventure again, take a few more pictures, breathe in deep the sighs of wonders, and next time even talk to some of those beautiful strangers faces. You just never know what barriers could be broken from a simple hello.
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