We’re in the midst of a long drought. The land is sere, except where irrigated and richly-dark with green crops that, growing between the earth and a blue dome, lift my spirit.
Driving out the dirt lane, I see the foxes that, except for their black, bushy tail tips, blend with the varying shades of tan. Deer and antelope are movements in the picture puzzle of bent grasses and isolated, leafy bushes. There is a lap of weak-green fuzz in depressions where a short rain settled. But overall, the view is monotone.
On bazaar day, I take my camera to photograph “beautiful carrots,” like the ones I bought last week—strong bodies and a clear, bright orange color, without discolored ends. But this time, I’m disappointed. The anticipated woven basket holds runts of undistinguished color and uninviting energy.
Discouraged, I leave the building, which is dim, with its high ceiling and two distinctly different ends: in the front—vegetable sellers seated cross-legged on a raised-stone center platform or standing up high above a bank of produce, and in the back—the same narrow aisles partially blocked by cows and calves and all in a stink of Eastern-style toilets on one wall.
Breaking out of the low-light into the brighter alley of vegetable sellers, I’m stopped by my body’s not wanting to move beyond this first array of produce that I come to; it’s all green. I feel strength, energy, and coolness rising up in me, surrounding me—protecting me like an envelope. Reaching the end of the baskets, I turn back to stare at the characteristics of the greens. Their communication is strong—creating my answer.
My realization is, “We may be infused with energy in the simplest of situations—feeling refreshed and filled with the pleasure of being alive.”