Enough

I dug beneath each plant, its little white and yellow flowers now gone, its green foliage starting to wither, to find the round, hard, Purple Peruvian potatoes, like buried treasure. Tossed in my daily harvest basket along with zucchini, jalapenos, tomatoes, red and yellow onions and a large fistful of peppermint destined to become pesto, I realized I was finally a success in my garden. Not because I have bounty. But because I have enough.

I had begun to notice this change in my perspective with the blackberries, that I was picking only a cupful each day. That I was not climbing into the juniper bushes to reach every last berry in every last corner, my arms and legs covered with scratches like last year. That I was leaving some for the birds. That I had enough.

Even with the herbs, I see a difference. I no longer have armfuls of them hanging drying in the garage, or packaged in small glass jars for when they can no longer be found fresh in my garden. Because they are there long enough. And when they are gone, I no longer need them. I no longer crave the taste of basil in January. I no longer want parsley in summer, here, in Atlanta, in my all-day-sun garden. I have had enough. I will have enough.

And in the rest of my life, I see this change, too. I have enough in my freezer. Enough in my closet. Enough in my daily schedule. Enough in my heart.

My life, in all its joys and frustrations, longings and ambitions, has become enough.

I do enough. I have enough. I am enough. And all because of that garden.

Enough