To me harvest days will always be Mondays and Thursdays, torrential rains or excessive heat, six a.m. and the sun just showing up over the fields. It will always remind me of wide brimmed hats and bare feet in the mud and bin after bin full of cucumbers and carrots and kale. Back in New York, I never got to see the pumpkins or the potatoes that we planted in early summer. I fill in the gaps with the farmers market and the fig tree I am desperately trying to keep alive in my apartment, and I thrive in the city knowing that the farm still holds a special place inside me.
This year, the word harvest has new meaning; baking a pumpkin pie from a real pumpkin (even though it took four hours and my family hates pumpkin pie), a new appreciation for things that grow. But mostly this year I’m thinking not of what I’ve grown but of how I’ve grown and how I don’t try to define home anymore because I know it can exist in more than one place. It’s the city and the farm and it’s also right here, sitting by the fireplace with my family on Thanksgiving. I like to believe that I’ll somehow end up in the places I’m meant to be, and for now that is enough to feel content. Happy harvest, with many thanks.
