This week our little harvest took us to a farm in Gillette. It’s a farm my family has been connected to for over 100 years. I was raised to know the name ‘Ed Kielblock’ He delivered milk and eggs to my mom’s family every week. He was close with my great grandma. His farm was something of a haven.
So we paid a visit. There are apple orchards in the back and a pumpkin patch on the side. We loaded the green tractor and made our bumpy ride to the top. Once we stopped, Skeeter (Ed’s son) told us how to pick an apple the right way—turning it over like you’re inspecting it. Like there’s a poem on the bottom of it. So that the fruit stem stays in place. So there’s future fruit for next year.
He also told us about the apple hornet that eats an apple a day. Big, yellow, graceful. We were careful not to interfere with their feast while we picked our apples.
It started to drizzle as the tractor made its way back down. And by the time we had made our way to the pumpkin patch and picked our finds, it was pouring. We stood under trees and slowly inched our way out so the warm rain soaked our skin and clothes. And we waited for the same green tractor that started our day.
In some sense, it was uncomfortable. I started thinking that I needed to get us somewhere dry and warm. But the longer we stayed there, the more laughed. And the more we came alive.
There’s no big lesson here. It was a quiet moment that served as a loud reminder. To inch my way towards discomfort. To trust it. To lean into it. To remember that I have the capacity to be awake and alive, even when it hurts. When it’s scary. And when it’s exhilarating and blissful.
We hold canyons inside of us every day at any given time. The more we fight to stay on one side, the larger the chasm feels. Capacity is about staying in your body. Staying with yourself.
And remembering that as feelings come and go—as life changes and evolves—there’s an apple orchard and a pumpkin patch that’s been around for 150 years. Hornets. Rain. And bumpy trails.
The fruit is still full. The pumpkins are still grounded.
And so are you.
Love,
Devon