Zucchini

A few weeks ago, I was planting herbs when a woman I’d never met offered me her extra zucchini plants. I tucked them into the soil, and before long, they were taking over my garden bed.

These zucchini are small miracles. I swear, just two mornings ago they were still flowers, and today I had four full-grown and decidely immodest vegetables ready for picking, one already on the verge of going woody. I came unprepared, without shears, so I twisted and plucked, hands muddy, fingers pricked by those tiny viney hairs.

A man introduced himself as Michael and congratulated me on my first harvest. I handed him a zucchini and thanked him for helping me mark my little seasonal ritual: always give away your first fruit.

As we talked Swiss chard, a woman walked past cradling a bouquet of weeds. Michael opened the compost bin, and she tucked them in. She spotted the zucchini and I offered her one too. We all laughed about the unexpected addition to our dinners and I confessed, “They’re not even mine" in deference to the donated plants.

But that’s the thing about gifts of the earth, isn’t it? Plants, water, oil, clean air -- they’re not really ours to keep. Certainly not ours to hoard. Just minutes earlier, before meeting Michael, I had been worrying about how to use four whole zucchini before two more arrived tomorrow.

We smiled as we parted ways, Michael, Stacey, and me, each heading home with a surprise gift from a seedling freely given, connecting three strangers in the soft abundance of summer.

In The Serviceberry, Robin Wall Kimmerer shares the story of a hunter who, after bringing home a sizeable kill, invites his village for a feast instead of storing the excess. When asked why, he responds simply:

“Store my meat? I store my meat in the belly of my brother.”

Wealth is having enough to share. The practice of abundance is learning how to give it away.

I feel so rich.