I often coach that part of contemplation is being ok with blankness.

It’s not enough to sit with your notebook, pen poised, searching for ideas.

It’s necessary to have the capacity to spaciously wait for something to come.

To allow the millions of observations your brain is making to filter through your meaning-making apparatus and crystallize into a thought you care about.

Often these days when we must wait for something we fill that time with something going on in our phone. I often respond to messages or double-check plans.

But I’ve noticed that at our local farmers markets people socialize rather than using phones, and I think that’s a good thing. So I try not to pass the time this way. The socializing also makes the process of buying something slower, and thereby makes the line slower.

I was in such a line, waiting to buy vegetables from one of my favorite farms. It’s owned by an earnest young couple who seem both high skilled and totally committed to quality. Everything on their table is beautiful.

Everyone ahead of me had asked for “sucrine”. What’s that? I watched. The round fluffy but not at all floppy lettuces. I hoped there would be some left for me. As the customer in front of me searched for change, the young farmer took the time to resupply the table. I watched him bring another basket  from the truck and gently replenish the pile of sucrines.

I realized the desire in the eyes of the line of customers. I realized the pride in the hands of the farmer.

I thought about my own attempt at farming. The many steps and skills and threats between a seed and a meal.

I felt so much admiration for this quiet young man.

This is very difficult work, impressive, committed.

I remembered a few days ago, impatiently shoving lettuces from another farmer into a too-small bag. I felt embarrassed that I had mistreated them so.

The little pile of perfect lettuces suddenly appeared like jewels, or butterflies. Precious, mysterious. Something to be honored.

And I realized, I could have so easily missed this moment. Missed the space that allowed me to observe, reflect, and appreciate the food, and the farmer.

How much else am I missing in my rush, in my efficiency, in my technology, in my discomfort to be alone, silent, and patient.