“I’m really going to miss being barefoot all the time.”

I’ve just joined my friends at the bottom of the hill of our favorite swimming spot, an expanse I now know well enough to traverse with only the helping hands of a headlamp or full moon. The ground is damper than usual, and cold. There’s a new chill in the air that threatens to stick around, and the sun is playing hide and seek behind the pines. I am grateful.

A few weeks before, when the sun was less skittish, we romped around in warm soil, overjoyed at the day’s task: potato harvest. My friend and I took turns standing on the back of the tractor, delighted as the tanned tubers tumbled out of the dirt. While the farmers in the bunch remarked on the quality of their harvest, I daydreamed about what they might taste and look like on my dining room table (or, better yet, atop a blanket on my deck, or on my lap in the grass).

My mouth watered with the memory of one of my favorite meals we enjoyed after an afternoon in the field earlier in the summer. The spread included lamb kebabs from the farm’s flock, grilled to perfection by a beloved; a salad celebrating celery, one of my proudest creations I perfected over the few weeks the humble veg appeared in my box; unctuous collard greens puzzled over by a dear one until they came out juicy, sharp, as they should; and, of course, the all-star side dish dancing in front of my eyes as I gazed at the potatoes next to me – Yukon Golds made even butterier with tahini and globs of garlic.

I've made countless meals cross-legged on my deck, or recovering from surgery, or tending the wounds from a world that won't seem to give them a break. This, I am certain, is what my hands are most suited for.

I am not a farmer, but I strive to honor, as holistically as possible, the notion of harvest. To harvest is to gather, and this summer has been an exercise in discovering how I want that notion to show up in my life. For just a few precious hours each week, I get to spend time in the fields understanding more and more what that means to me. I’ve used my hands to dislodge vegetables from the earth, to pick weeds that seemed to never end, to plop fresh berries into my mouth, to process precious ephemerals from the forest, to select rocks from the river bottom, not to skip myself, but to offer to others whose hands more deftly do the job.

When I return to the city, I spend hours in the kitchen, creating concoctions that celebrate both what we’ve been given by the field and those who have given it to me. I’ve crafted cookies whose new names belong to those whose tastes inspire them. I’ve made countless meals based entirely on what we harvested that week, and served them to loved ones sitting cross-legged on my deck, or recovering from surgery, or tending the wounds from a world that won’t seem to give them a break. This, I am certain, is what my hands are most suited for.

I’ve gathered, too, with friends, family, lovers, acquaintances, and many people defying such simple definitions, around community meals and compost piles and crossword puzzles, on winding trails and cozy couches and shallow sandbars. We’ve broken bread together, we’ve challenged each other, we’ve laughed loudly, cried softly, let the cool water soothe our aching muscles and shaky hearts. These individuals have taught me and seen me and cared for me with the same gentleness with which they tend to their earthly bounties. I am grateful.

Now, the potatoes we harvested a few short weeks ago wait patiently on my overflowing butcher block. I can only hope I will dote over them with the same delight we did in the fields, when the sun was less elusive and the promise of fall not yet hazy on the horizon.