Becoming Whispers | The Market

I'm at the farmer's market this morning, and the air is thick with the smell of fresh bread and strawberries and something earthy, maybe the herbs at the stand I just passed.

The sun is warm on my shoulders, and I'm wearing a loose linen shirt that moves with the breeze.

I stop at a table covered in heirloom tomatoes, red, yellow, deep purple. They're piled high, still warm from the sun.

The woman behind the table is older, her hands weathered and strong. She's arranging the tomatoes, turning them so the best sides face out.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" she says, looking up at me.

"They are," I say, and I pick one up, a deep red one, heavy in my palm. The skin is smooth and slightly warm.

"That's a good one," she says. "Sweet. Perfect for slicing."

I nod, and I set it down gently, picking up another, this one yellow, smaller, with a faint blush of orange at the top.

"That one's tart," she says. "Good for salads."

We talk for a few minutes, about tomatoes, about the weather, about how early the season started this year.

It's easy. Light. I'm not trying to be anything other than what I am.

I buy three tomatoes and a bunch of basil, and she wraps them carefully in brown paper.

"Enjoy," she says, handing them to me.

"I will," I say. "Thank you."

I walk away, the bag heavy in my hand, the scent of basil rising up around me.

And I feel it again, that quiet steadiness. That presence.

I didn't disappear into her. I didn't become smaller or quieter or less.

I was just... there. With her. In the moment.

I stop at another stand, this one selling flowers. Sunflowers, peonies, lilies, and roses mostly. White ones, pink ones, deep burgundy ones.

A man is standing next to me, looking at the roses. He glances over and says, "Hard to choose, isn't it?"

I laugh. "Impossible."

He smiles and picks up a bunch of roses, pale pink with darker edges. "These are my wife's favorite," he says.

"They're beautiful," I say.

He nods and walks away, and I stand there for another moment, looking at the flowers.

I pick up a bunch of white lilies, still mostly closed. Some blooms are already open, their petals curved back, stamens heavy with pollen. Others are just beginning to unfurl, another day or two and they'll be full. And the smallest ones, still tight at the tips, are waiting. Patient. Ready for their moment.

I love lilies for this reason. They don't all bloom at once. They come at different stages, so the bunch lasts for weeks. There's always something new opening, always something to watch for. And the smell, that deep, sweet, almost overwhelming fragrance that fills a whole room.

The sun is warm here. The air smells like earth and petals and summer.

And I'm here.

Not performing. Not trying to be seen or liked or understood.

Just here.

I buy the bunch and walk home, the stems wrapped in paper, the petals bright against the blue sky.