Yesterday was very bittersweet, picking green tomatoes in the snow. Monday was still summer here in Utah, and much of me is still not ready to let go of it. I didn't absorb as much of summer as I wanted; there weren't enough picnics; I didn't eat enough basil. I ate a lot of tomatoes and zucchini and eggplant. As I picked brilliant red, marble sized cherry tomatoes off the declining plant, gloves soaked, snowflakes landing on my nose, impressions of summer flashed through my mind.
I get this feeling of wanting more, of wanting to soak up the essence of an experience into my being, or to dissolve into it, zen-like, becoming a part of the season. I want to see jars of red tomatoes on a blue cloth; I want to smell basil, hear the fireworks booming, feel the warm sun. I wonder if there is a way to ever have my fill of a season, to be satiated and content. Or must it always be a letting go of one lover in order to welcome the next?
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