Harvest

Dear Crew,

I was in the mountains this week.

I had actually planned to hike back down to the valley from the cabin that morning. Have breakfast, pack my backpack, and head down. Then I struck up a conversation with a woman over breakfast. We talked about hiking, clothing, and how surprisingly little specialized gear you actually need for the mountains.

And somehow, that conversation didn't draw me down into the valley, but back up again.

So I set off. Through a stretch of forest I already knew but had nevertheless almost forgotten. Water everywhere. Little streams, a waterfall, damp earth, rocks, and light filtering through the trees.

I filled my bottle at a spring. Later, I dipped my hands, feet, and head into the ice-cold water and reminded myself of how good the mountains are for me. And I left a sliced apple there as a silent thank-you to this piece of earth.

And as I sat there, ideas came to me. For a hiking retreat that I’d like to offer in the mountains next year. A way of being together where we start by walking together and, eventually, talk less. Where there are invitations, but no pressure. Moments when each person can follow their own body, their own attention, and maybe just an interesting plant.

I don't even have to do the hardest part there. The mountain takes care of that.

I had to laugh when I later drew a card from my own deck. " The Source. " My water bottle had just been filled with spring water. Sometimes life isn't exactly subtle…

For some time now, I've been thinking a lot about harvest. Maybe because summer is slowly coming to an end. Maybe because things that began months or years ago are just now becoming visible.

When we think of a harvest, we quickly think of the results of our work. A project is completed. An idea works out. Something comes back.

But over the past few weeks, I've realized: We don't just reap the rewards of our work. We also reap the rewards of our decisions. Sometimes even decisions that didn't feel like they were leading to growth at all at the time.

" No," for example.

Over the past few months, I’ve turned down a few events that I might have gone to anyway in the past. Sometimes because other people enjoy organizing them. Sometimes because that’s just what people do. At first, saying “no” can feel pretty unremarkable. Nothing visible comes of it. At first, it’s just a gap.

And at some point, you realize: Something has emerged in that empty space. Time. Strength. A different path. Or the opportunity for someone else to follow their own path.

I'm going through this right now with my partner. There are things he loves that are completely outside my world. In the past, we sometimes had to talk it over and negotiate. At some point, my "no" just became a "no."

And suddenly, it's really easy. He does his thing. I do mine. Later, we get back together on the couch and tell each other all about it.

My "no" didn't drive us apart. It set things straight.

And sometimes other people benefit from the boundaries we set.

Maybe you’ve been there. Maybe at some point you stopped taking on a role that had long been taken for granted. Maybe you ended a friendship. Maybe you’re working less. Maybe you stopped keeping something alive that only survived because you were constantly pouring energy into it.

At first, it often doesn't look like a harvest. It looks more like a loss. Like an empty space.

But maybe it's worth taking another look sometime. What has grown there in the meantime?

Right now, I'm also experiencing encounters that don't have to last.

At the lodge, I was seated at a table with a woman I didn't know for dinner. We talked about our lives, about mountains, and about friendships that eventually fall apart. It was a really lovely evening. The next morning, we each went our separate ways.

In the past, I might have paid more attention to what might come of an encounter. Now I can think to myself: That was just right for one evening.

Not every good encounter needs to have a future. We don't have to store everything we harvest. Some things we eat right off the tree.

And then there’s another kind of harvest that’s really touching me right now. People are starting to see things in me that I myself have spent a long time building, exploring, and sometimes defending.

A friend told me how much my sensitivity and attentiveness are helping our joint project. My friend from the mountain hut was amazed that I’ve established a rhythm of life in which work has just as much a place as open spaces and mountains.

And I realize: It feels good to be seen. Not by everyone. Not completely. But precisely enough that sometimes something comes back from the outside and I think: Yes. That's me.

Perhaps that, too, is a kind of harvest. Not finally receiving the recognition we’ve been waiting for, but living with something long enough for it to take shape.

And we can also learn from the things that didn't work out. From the paths we abandoned. From breaks. From detours. From many little "yeses" and "nos."

Perhaps there is something in your life right now that you haven’t yet recognized as a blessing. A boundary that gives you more strength. A skill that emerged from a difficult time. A place you keep coming back to. Or something very small. A morning when you wake up and realize: This is exactly how I always wanted to live.

Not everything we sow grows. Not everything that grows lasts. And not every harvest turns out the way we imagined it would.

And there are some things you only discover when you’re actually supposed to be well on your way back down to the valley, but life pulls you back up one more time.

With love and full baskets,
Jeannette