Farmers' Market

Somewhere between the organic salt-cured lemons and the sugar snap peas, between the spicy garlic cheese and the sweet apple pie, my heart heals. It’s a weekly reminder, a small act, but it keeps me sane, makes me whole, and reminds me that God is very good.

In scientific words, the farmers market is a coping mechanism: a precaution against the competitive, perfect Westmont world. The farmers market allows me to step away from the bubble, showing me that there are still babies and awkward middle schoolers and lovely old grandparents in this world. The famers market represents all walks of life, from the millionaire Montecito residents to musicians to friends without homes. But no matter how different we are, we all show up at the same time, in the same place, to shop for fresh spinach and homemade trail mix and organic honey. The farmers market is a triple threat treat for my senses; it wakes me up, helps me see clearly, and breaks the fog of academia. I stop conceptualizing and analyzing and instead see real, ripe, red tomatoes and taste sweet summer peaches. Colors are brighter at the farmers market, and a train of adjectives chugs through my head, describing the colorful summer squash and ripe green avocados.

The farmers market is a reminder to thank my body, and think many, many nice thoughts about it, because all too often I am my own worst critic.

Going to the farmers market is a confession. It’s me admitting that the go-go-go pressures of Westmont are a little too much to handle every second of every day; it’s me admitting that I’m just not strong enough. The farmers market allows me to wander aimlessly among the bouquets of all white and bright pink flowers, among the lilies and spray roses, the dahlias and avocado wood. It’s the best of the best. I talk to Barry the grape man and buy plump, freshly-picked-that-very-morning red grapes. Every week I see the Solvang Pie Company, with their apple rum raisin streusel and strawberry rhubarb crumb pies, and (sometimes) work up the will power to not buy a $2 square. I see the almond butter and avocado blossom honey and imagine all of the wonderful salads I could make with the arugula and spinach and fresh cabbage, the still earthy carrots and golden dried raisins. Among the cherry tomatoes and dried white peaches and juicy limes, I lose track of my papers and readings and worries.

It was at the farmers market that I found out, after weeks of insecurity and worry, that my dad didn’t have cancer. It was at the farmers market where I would talk with my mom as she walked the dog or check in with friends back home. The farmers market has a spark, an earthy, meaningful charm. There's something about the farmers market that sticks, it sticks to my soul and stays there forever. I went to the farmers market every single Tuesday of sophomore year. That’s 30 farmers market trips, give or take. I will be abroad in the fall, and I will miss this. 

It had a quiet ending, this farmers market business, no fireworks or spectacular shebang, but it was perfect. Tuesday, May 1, 2012: I caught the 3:30 shuttle from Armington, on to pick up the freshman from upper campus, then down the bumpy hill, hitting the speed bumps a little too fast, zipping through Montecito, then along the ocean to State Street, always taking the extra 4 minute detour even when we didn't need to. I got all of the normal samples that final afternoon: smoked jack cheese, an apple pie square, plump golden raisins, half a mandarin. I bought my avocados and a pie square, enjoyed the music and the people, catching bits of conversations and smiling at babies and letting the freshness of the market soak deep into my skin. Then that familiar walk back to the shuttle stop, grabbing a youthberry tea sample from Tevana along the way, and it was over. That was that.

This is my thank you letter to the persimmons and red peppers, the fresh beets and garlic roasted peanuts of the State Street Tuesday afternoon farmers market, written in my very best, most beautiful handwriting. Thank you for helping me thrive this year. Thank you for the smells and tastes you so generously gave, for allowing me to walk out my stress and worries, my anxiety and doubt. Thank you that each week as I wandered between the stalls of eggplants and cauliflower and asparagus, my blindness was lifted, my papers and tests and stresses weighed out on the scale of life, until I was left with myself, my Yogurtland (which I realize is an oxymoron, frozen yogurt at a farmers market, but it’s just what I do), and my sanity. Thank you for reminding me what a joy and a privilege it is to fill my body with fresh, nourishing food. Thank you, farmers market, for binding me together each week, for giving me the ultimate pep talk. I am forever grateful.

Here's to those little blessings God puts into our lives and, if we let them in, the joy and healing that they bring.