Today, after our tonglen practice, I accidentally found myself at Woodlawn Farmers’ Market. I meant to get coffee and a roll at the bakery, but I saw the market was open and I decided to go there instead, because I was hungry and had some cash in my pocket because last week was my birthday.
I walked around the perimeter of the market, looking to see what was there today. Apples— good apples fresh from a field somewhere, not the kind that have been prisoners in a dark refrigerated commercial storage unit since last fall. And there were all kinds of root vegetables. and colorful buckets of dahlias. There was coffee and tortillas and sweets.
I stopped at the first booth nearest the street. I used to have a market vendor stall, and I remember claiming that space as I aged because it was nearest the loading and unloading zone. That’s what you do if you know you’re going to be tired when the market is over, and especially if you are working alone or it’s raining.
The man did look tired. And to be truthful, his vegetables looked tired, too. But they were honest.. they had the scars of a garden with no pesticides and they were shaped in such a way as to make me think they got watered on a variable and somewhat unreliable schedule. That seemed perfect. Simple and real food from a simple and real neighbor.
So I gathered up vegetables in the way that I do—no idea what I am going to cook. I got apples, and a bunch of stunted kale, 3 potatoes, some pickled beets, and a few other things. Quite a few.
While the man was packing up the vegetables, I noticed that every knuckle joint on his hands was enlarged. His skin was dried from continuous exposure to the sun. I said, “It’s hard work, isn’t it, growing vegetables?” He sighed heavily and and shook his head slowly in agreement. He responded but his voice was so soft I could barely hear. I realized he possibly did not speak much English—or just not with confidence. His front teeth had old-style gold fillings. His clothes were all the color you get when you wash all the clothes in the same load. His skin and his clothes were the same light brown.
I said, “I am getting old and and I can’t really garden any more.” He looked at me as he put vegetables into a bag and said, “I am also old now. I am 75.” I said, “You don’t look 75, you look 60 and he smiled shyly and said, “Actually I am a boy. I am 16.” We both laughed. And for just one moment his eyes sparkled and his back straightened a little and he looked a tiny bit more alive before he sunk back into the soft posture of a man who has carried too much for too long.
I said, “I appreciate these vegetables. I appreciate your work. Your hard work.” and he looked and me and didn’t say anything, but handed me the bag. I saw him carefully smooth the dollar bills and put them into his pocket.
I looked around a little more and then decided to go home. As I passed his stall, I looked him in the eye and said, “OK. See you next week.” He tilted his head and smiled the smallest of smiles and then looked down at the table in front of him. What I meant was, “I see you. I feel you, and I know we are connected. I love you.”
I walked across the street and put my bags into the car, got in the front seat and put my head on the steering wheel and cried a little before turning the key. When I have been practicing, I see that we are all so beautiful. We are all tired and alive and old and young. The only food I want to eat is the food that sustains someone else. The only things I want to buy are those that put money in the pockets of those who are poor.
Much love in the practice,
Lekshe
Upcoming Events at Dekeling
October 28: Vipashyana: Seeing Clearly
October 29: Conversation with Lama Palden: Women in Tibetan Buddhism