Really. Me. That.

A few weeks ago at the Garden Exchange, naturally I was delighted to bump into someone I've known for years through yoga. I say naturally because honestly, one of the great surprises of my dotage has been the large number of new friends I've made thanks to our shared practice.  That has been a sweet boon, indeed, something I didn't go looking for but something I cherish.

Anyway, this woman knows me the way all us yogis know each other initially: she just knows the me that shows up on the mat, usually center of the front row.  She knows none of the extraneous details of my life, those things that seem to matter so much in other parts of our culture -- where I live, what I drive, how I get money.  All she sees is the me that comes to class.  

So then in our conversation a few weeks ago, I must have let slip that I have a job, and it's as if the people-mover our conversation was on came to an abrupt halt.

Wait, she said. You have a job?

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A yard sale, for real

By now everybody has heard of, if not bought shares in, a CSA -- that is, a Community-Supported Agriculture delivery service. You know, it's this way of supporting farmers by subscription, i.e., buying a box a week of whatever produce they've grown and harvested, which they then deliver to your house. I see posts about people's CSA box arriving, the delight at receiving that week's representative bounty from someone's patch of dirt somewhere.  I love the idea of CSA, the way it connects people to what's growing in their area and gets them eating more locally and cleaner.

But I'm thinking maybe we need to go even smaller.

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