My land has so many gifts. Day after day, they greet me. Violet leaves and mint, oregano and basil. Summer is generous beyond comprehension.
This year I've decided to store up these gifts. When I trim back the mint, I put it on a tray in the sun. It dries into furled, fragrant dark green curls that look a bit like seashells. In fact, each day I harvest something... rose petals or raspberry leaves... and use the energy of summer's sun to save up surprises for winter teas and soups.
Storing up for the future. I am learning. And this past weekend, it came home to me that this is a way of being, of sustenance, that I want to encourage in all areas of my life.
See, a dear friend of mine passed away. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. I am stricken, to the depths of my soul. I feel like I am falling into nothingness.
Even so... for a time, when I sat with my God-family Sunday morning, and the vocabulary of faith that has been stored up began to flow... in song, in prayer, in the ritual of communion, in the sharing of scripture... I felt like I was being borne up in someone's arms. It occurred to me that this did not come out of nowhere, but that it drew on a strength that has been built up over time.
To everything there is a season. A time to plant. And a time to harvest. A time to reach into the storehouse.
Dried Mint photo by L.L. Barkat.