I’m at the garden to water. I’ve just come from the hairdresser, arguably my least favourite place to leave the house for. I’m wearing contact lenses, because it’s just easier than dealing with glasses at the salon, and a pair of sunglasses.
It’s hot, but not unpleasantly so, and I’m lost in thought as I move my watering wand from place to place, bending to pull a weed or pull a sucker off a tomato plant, inspecting the vegetables and making note of now much they’ve grown overnight.
I spy a tiny cucumber on the vine, make a note to thin the Swiss chard and look forward to enjoying a first taste for supper in a couple of days, remind myself I still have lettuce in the fridge so I don’t need to pick any today.
And it is, as always, but there’s something magical about the way the Merlot lettuce glistens. I lower my sunglasses, and there’s the lettuce I’m used to seeing—still pretty and quite striking. I push my sunglasses back up and there, once more, is that almost other-worldly gorgeous lettuce.
The life application is loud and clear.
I drench the lettuce a little longer than need be as I continue to feast my eyes on the red gorgeous leaves and ponder truth seen in a new way.