25/09/2025
When I was younger, my parents used to have a narrow but long strip of vegetable garden bordering farmland (corn field, to be exact). I remember quite vividly those summer days where my parents would harvest buckets and buckets of tomatoes, giving them away as nature kept giving. Or the basil plant my mum was quite proud of that gifted us so much basil for pesto and other dishes.
We also had fruit trees and my favourite was the cherry tree, just in front of our house, that would turn into a beautiful fire red every other summer (with the exception of one summer where a thunderstorm destroyed it all).
At the time, I never understood why my parents would spend their time looking after that, why my mum would then go the extra mile to create a herb sanctuary on her balcony in the new place where they are now living.
Oh, if it took me such a long time to appreciate that!
Fast forward a good 20 odd years, I do really understand what harvest season really is for me now: contentment with knowing I’m part of something larger. I wonder if my parents at the time felt that, too.
Sure, I had to contend with a particularly dry growing season, slugs, cats, a steep learning curve on how to grow, unsuccessfully planting chard and carrots and squash, confusing lettuce for w**d twice.
In the end, this allotment felt like practicing justice: returning to interdependence, listening deeply to what is needed, refusing the logic of extraction at all cost and really sharing, participating in a slow reweaving of connection of the body to the land and the land to justice.
What is your harvesting story?