It's Tuesday evening.
I adventure to the Farmer's Market...
I am hungry, and know it is no way to shop, my belly empty, growling.
Head for the nectarines I bought last week, so full, so juicy, everything I craved.
Picked them up and selected myself the most fragrant yellow, tender nectarine I can find.
It smells like honey nectar.
First bite bursts open. Juice thick, sweet, just a hint of tang, messy, dripping.
Wandering, licking, I let myself be curious and open.
Stop to talk to the political word art man, generally shunned, just wanting to share his art.
"I'm not selling, I hate money," Frankie says and shows me his t-shirts and posters.
He's intelligent, well-spoken, creative and insightful, clever beyond my mind's bounds.
I'm stretched, slightly uncomfortable, but I breathe and I am centered, strong, me.
I allowed myself to be fascinated, to play with his ideas, to excuse myself when I was done.
I felt beautiful, he felt beautiful, we gave each other peace signs goodbye.
Smiling, sitting on the curb, slurping, reveling the last of my nectarine,
it drips on my shoes.
Roll and suck the sour pit in my mouth.
Then it is time to I look around, explore the season.
I shop. I follow my appetite and healthy desires.
I taste the fruits, the strawberries: Albion or Seascape today?
The kombucha woman offers me the last few bites of her chocolate chip cookie.
More savoring and delighting. Lucky day.
I buy as many vegetables as I can carry. 3 bunches of kale for $4.
And a basket of soft candy-sweet black Mission figs.
My arms heavy with produce and riches, my mind ignited in flow and creativity.
I bike home, wind on my face. My legs alive and pumping steadily.
This is how I feed myself.