Eight-thirty on a Sunday morning and the air is softly warm after yesterday's punishing heat. Farmers' Market. Picnic tables under the trees and there is shade even though the morning sun is still slanting in from the east.
Guitarist properly amped and the play list is every song I love and new ones I haven't heard but fall for immediately. Is it something in the coffee? It's only a decaf latte.
Young families and old, singles and couples, patient and waiting as lines form at the coffee stand, the fish taco vendor, and the crepe truck. There is no hurry here, nobody is yelling, nobody is running, everyone is soaking in the calm of a communal morning with genial strangers. Tables shared, but nobody seeking for conversation, particularly. Resting in the abundance of fresh fruit, vegetables, handmade soap, blue eggs from exotic chickens resting alongside the brown and white.
A toddler wanders off the path and onto the clover. Nobody worries about bees, and nobody is stung. She picks a blade of grass, and nobody cares whether it goes into her mouth or not. She is just there, examining it and experiencing the feel, the smell of green. 
This. I think. Just this.
The love of my life sits across the table. He has brought food and drink, remembering napkins and forks, and he doesn't have a lot to say. What needs saying, anyway? We are here, we are together, we are part of all of this good company.
He sits in the shade, I am in the gentle sun and remember its mood from yesterday.
Plans for shopping drift in and out of my mind, and finally, when we have been sitting there for an hour, I decide on flowers. But when it comes down to it, I settle for some nice dark green celery and brussels sprouts. I remember that my own garden has quite a sufficiency of flowers.
And I am reminded that I have quite a full, abundant life.
